


Conan and the Cult of the Brass Masks

by dougnolan



Category: Conan - Robert E. Howard, Conan the Barbarian & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dark gods, Evil magic, F/M, Mysterious Ruins, sword and sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23584285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dougnolan/pseuds/dougnolan
Summary: Our story begins when Conan trips a snare while fleeing a band of desert nomads he once led. Dangling upside-down, he meets Gwynn, a (real) farm girl, incredibly strong from years of hard work and willful as she is beautiful.Gwynn's father has been kidnapped by men wearing brass masks. To find him, Conan and Gwynn need the help of Korman, a student who, annoyingly, knows everything. Conan hates him and Gwynn barely tolerates him. Korman, however, adores his new comrades and provides an idealistic foil for Conan's in-the-moment personality.With Conan's sword, Gwynn's axe and Korman's impeccable logic, they find Modo-Imalic, a quiet and unsettling city lost in the desert...I wrote this book to introduce readers new to the world originally created by Robert E. Howard and H.P. Lovecraft. This is a fast and fun read, available to all.
Relationships: Conan/ Gwynn
Kudos: 1





	Conan and the Cult of the Brass Masks

**Conan and the Cult of the Brass Masks**

by Douglas Nolan

Conan trudged wearily to a stop on the old trail as the first wave of moist air from the valley settled upon his sand-whipped flesh. He squinted skeptically at the city in the distance, its walls painted red with the evening glow. A mirage. Or maybe it was real this time.

Only two weeks prior, he had been a thief in Shadizar, respected and ranked high in the guild. After choosing the wrong side in a guild war, he had fled, hiding himself as a caravan guard passing through the Zuagir desert. The caravan would have taken him to the coast, but travel had been slow and Conan had become restless. So when another guard, young and impulsive, had suggested the life of a raider rather than the more staid profession of guarding, Conan had left with him.

They had met with a small group of like-minded nomads, but the young guard had been killed during some miner dispute with one of their new allies. Conan, however, had quickly gained a position of leadership, a slinky woman and a dog who wouldn't stop following him. Conan had realized, too late, the ambitious nature of the woman. She had betrayed him and Conan had had to fight his way through a force of Nomads and, again, flee into the desert with little water and no food. At least the dog had still followed him.

Samara had been the closest city, so Conan had headed in that direction. Unfortunately, the dog had died in the heat. Conan had eaten the dog and continued his long trek toward the city of Samara.

"The desert is no place for a dog," Conan muttered to himself. He peered into the valley before him, at the lush vegetation and cultivated land surrounding the distant city. Samara, presumably. And the Ilbars river that ran past Samara and twisted through the valley. A whole river full of water. He could use some water. Conan convinced himself that both city and river were real and began his shuffling descent into the valley.

Conan, bemused and listless from days of travel in the desert, failed to see the branch of a nearby tree bent un-naturally to the path. Suddenly, a rope, hidden in the mounded dust of the trail, encircled and grabbed his ankle. The branch yanked upward, dragging him with it.

Stern faces and pitchforks clenched firmly stormed from behind nearby trees and boulders and surrounded an up-side down Conan. "We got one!" sang an excited voice. "It worked."

Their clothing was simple and tightly woven, but few articles were dyed. And all their readied weapons were tools used for agriculture. These were farmers.

Dangling though he was, Conan was not defenseless. His hand shot toward his nearest assailant. Conan yanked the man into the crook of his muscled arm.

"Step back or I'll break his neck," snarled Conan.

"Let him go, stranger, or we'll stab you all the same," countered another. Callused hands raised pitch forks and long handled scythes above the Cimmerian ready to execute the threat.

"Let him go. He's not one of them. Leave him be!"

Using his captive as leverage against the ground, Conan twisted on the rope to see the newcomer. A young woman pushed her way through the circle of men. Even from his disadvantaged position, Conan could see the strength of her movement; her muscles rippled subtly with her every motion. Black braids hung to either side of her olive-brown face. It was enough to make even an irate barbarian wonder if the soft evening glow traveled from the distant horizon for the sole purpose of settling upon her supple cheeks. She was beautiful.

Still, she carried a serious look.

"Can't you see he's not one of them?" she exhorted. "His skin is dark from the sun, not from birth. And he wears clothing from lands far away."

"Maybe so, but he can't intend anything good. Look at him. He is an over muscled barbarian and he glares with a wild stare."

"He wears no mask of brass. Moreover, will we apprehend all whose appearance you don't like? We will be at this for a long time and likely be no closer to capturing the kidnapper." Others had begun to murmur their assent to the woman, so the disgruntled assailant backed away. Makeshift weapons lowered and the circle of men stepped back.

The woman approached. "Hold on, barbarian. I'll cut you down. Put your hands to the ground so you don't hit your head with the fall."

"Save your effort," replied Conan. He released his half strangled prisoner who stumbled away, gulping for air. Bending at the waist, Conan curled his body upward. With one move, he pulled the sword from his sheath and swung toward the rope, cutting it in two. However, instead of collapsing to the ground, Conan pivoted through his fall and, demonstrating the reflexes of a panther, landed lightly on his feet, sword in hand. The circle of men widened further.

"Lower your sword, barbarian," requested the braided woman. "We don't seek to injure you. It was a mistake that we snared you. The trap was meant for others." She approached Conan and touched the shoulder of his sword arm, again expressing her request, unspoken.

Conan called to the farmers. "I'd stay and split your skulls were I not ready for this day's travel to end." He reversed the point of the sword and slammed it into his sheath. "You have a strange way of welcoming travelers." Conan stalked past the woman and headed toward Samara.

"A word, barbarian," requested a farmer. Most had left the road, trudging home through the surrounding fields. One man, the speaker, remained standing by the woman. Conan shot an untrusting look toward the rope from which he had recently hung. Nonetheless, he stopped.

"We can give you a place for the night," offered the man. "And we have a boar on the spit."

"I'm listening."

"We ask only to speak with you for a time this evening. My name is Amed, a friend of the man who was abducted from this very spot scarcely two days past. She is Gwynn, his daughter."

Conan considered the pair. "Gwynn is a northern name."

"My mother was from the northern clime of Hyperborea."

* * * * *

"She died when I was young," explained Gwynn. She and Amed stared intently across the table. The horizon still shone with a thin ribbon of deep violet that reflected dimly off the river. A small cloud of insects flirted with the flame of a single lantern hanging from a nearby branch. Early evening stars mixed with the smells of manure, livestock and roasting pig.

"My father and I sow grain and raise our animals along the Illbars. This is our home." Gwynn gestured toward a small dwelling, built simple but sturdy. A light spray of grease spurted into the evening air as Conan ripped a handful of meat from bone. He grunted and managed to fit most of it into his mouth.

"Men wearing brass masks took my father three evenings past. They traveled the same path by which you arrived. Thus we mistakenly captured you."

Conan responded with a single nod as he shoved the narrow end of a wine skin against the inside of one cheek. A rivulet of purple drool moved past his lips and dropped off his chin.

"He had dealings with the Ulanec Conglomeration. They are an association that deals with trade in Samara," explained Amed. "We think they may be involved."

Conan belched and used his teeth to rip flesh from a hog's leg.

Gwynn continued. "I will enter the city tomorrow. I will ask the people at the Conglomerate some questions, but as a simple farmer’s daughter, I'm afraid that I will be ignored. However, you have an intimidating presence. With you, they may attend my concerns." She paused as Conan chewed the gristle from the bone. "I can speak for both of us. You need only stand nearby."

With a single motion, Conan broke the bone and continued his feast.

"I admire your economy with food, barbarian," remarked Amed. "But you don't have to suck marrow from the bone. We have enough."

* * * * *

Morning sun slipped silently onto Samara's walls, giant stacked stones shaped and placed by free men and slaves in years gone by. With arms folded in a fury of mute impatience, Conan stood in line, glaring at the city's constabulary as they graciously accepted unspecified entrance fees from the gathering of wagons and individuals waiting to pass by the thick wooden gate.

"Did you sleep well?" Gwynn asked in a tentative voice.

"I could sleep well while riding a dinghy through a sleet storm on the high seas." Conan allowed his statement to fall into silence as he continued his irritated gaze at the city entrance where a sum of money had just been negotiated. Metal coins jangled as they dropped into the waiting hands of a gate guard.

"So, my father's bed wasn't too small?" Gwynn continued her query.

"Your bed would have been better."

"Mine is even shorter," responded Gwynn.

The pair fell into a moment of silence as they advanced in line the length of a merchant's wagon. Gwynn looked away then re-asserted her gaze on Conan.

"If you want to share my bed then mount a gem upon an oath locket and place it on the table in front of me," she said indignantly. "Then drop to one knee and beg."

"Humph." Conan exhorted a closed mouth snort as he looked down at Gwynn through the corner of one eye. Then he re-focused forward.

Gwynn crossed her arms and took a self-righteous posture. Again, the two fell silent for a while, taking the occasional stride forward as the line moved.

Finally, their turn at the gate arrived. Conan growled his menace through clenched teeth at the waiting guards.

"Ahh, our friends from the north are welcome to our humble city. No fee, of course." The guard's voice trailed away and he nervously waved them through the city gates.

* * * * *

Samara's central street curved through a maze of stalls, homes and businesses, gaining elevation before terminating at the hilltop amidst a cluster official looking buildings. Despite the early hour, vendors already hollered their wares to the crowds of milling humanity. Bolts of dyed cloth were held high in a demonstration of their color. Fabulous stones and silver jewelry covered tables.

Streets rose toward their middle, forcing most sewage into gutters that followed the road's side. Such pungent aromas mixed with the complex smells of spiced stews and simmering meats. Nearby, a newly bloodied axe stood embedded in a chopping block while a grizzled man stood over a cooking fire and called passersby to try, "the most delectable of meats." Next to him, a low cage held several yelping puppies. Their apparent mother lay listless under a table where her stomach and teats lay stretched and spent on the ground next to her.

Gwynn wrinkled her nose. "Samara smells horrible," she complained.

"Not so different from your farm," Conan returned.

"Livestock offal doesn't reek of beer badly digested and passed by foul old men."

Conan shrugged and they continued to wend their way through the bazaar of tables and shiny trinkets.

"How do we find the conglomerate in this mess?"

"You haven't come to the city before now?" Conan was surprised.

"Those who buy always came to us," explained Gwynn.

Conan afforded her a single nod. "We ask," he responded.

"Where do we start?"

"Here." Conan indicated a windowless shack-like building made of rotting boards which jutted upward from the muddy ground. Thick weeds surrounded its makeshift foundation. A handful of women, most wearing a robe against the morning chill and little else, lounged just outside the dark doorway. Smells of sour beer and piss floated from the establishment.

Gwynn hesitated at the entrance until one of the women approached Conan.

"Ho, northerner. For a few coins, I can make your dreams come true," she said through a smile of crooked teeth.

"We have work to do," declared a disapproving Gwynn and she stumped past Conan into the building.

"Maybe I'll have coins later," Conan offered with a grin. He turned, following Gwynn through the doorway.

* * * * *

"I don't know much about brass masks or the Conglomerate, but maybe if you take a seat here, we can talk about what I do know." A scruffy man leered at Gwynn as he patted his knee. Several of the man's friends sat at the same table. As one, they looked up at her, with evil grins.

This was a dark and stifling room. Many patrons sucked on long stemmed pipes, inhaling an acrid smoke that made their pupils shrink to small black dots upon the white orbs of their eyes. They sat and stared and smiled bemused.

Near the back of the room, the proprietor tended an open fire pit, created, it appeared, simply by removing a few floorboards. Some kind of large over-cooked rodent rotated on the spit. For a coin, the proprietor would dunk a customer's mug into a nearby barrel, returning the wet vessel filled with a thin inebriating gruel.

Fumes from the black goo that bubbled in pipes mixed with smoke from burnt rodent and drifted thick through the room. Gwynn's felt as if sand had been dumped into her eyes.

It was nearly mid day and she and Conan had already visited three such dens of iniquity. This was the fourth. Although this approach had been Conan's idea, he had helped little. He sat nearby, watching her bumble through yet another fruitless conversation.

In exasperation, Gwynn started to turn away from the table of grinning men, when one put his hand on her curved figure. A frustrated Gwynn pivoted and slammed her fist into his jaw. He dropped to the floor and lay still. All at the table stood.

Conan rolled his eyes as the group of men rushed Gwynn, taking her to the floor. Although greatly outnumbered, more than one of her assailants grunted in pain as Gwynn dealt damage.

Uttering a grumble of irritation, Conan approached the pile of writhing limbs. With one hand, he grabbed the luckless fellow on top and threw him against the wall - hard. The man hit and crumpled into a heap.

Conan grabbed another and lifted him. With a directed nod, Conan drove his forehead into the man's face. Blood spattered and he tossed the limp form to one side.

Those remaining quickly decided against tangling with the disgruntled barbarian. They scrambled for the exit, leaving Gwynn lying on the floor as she choked one man by squeezing his neck between her forearm and shoulder. His face had turned to a deep shade of purple.

Gwynn stood, leaving the man on the floor gasping for air. She turned and defiantly faced Conan.

"Did you learn anything?" he asked.

"Nobody has the information," she complained. "Everybody does business with the Conglomerate, but nobody can tell me who really is in charge."

"We're doing this wrong," said Conan in a matter of fact voice. "Give me your coins and I will get the answers you need."

"I tell you, these people don't have what we need."

Conan said nothing, but held forward his open hand.

"Fine." Gwynn dropped a small cloth purse into his hand. "I hope you know what you're doing. I worked hard for that coin."

* * * * *

Day wandered into evening as Gwynn followed Conan into the most dilapidated hovels that the great city of Samara had to offer. The Bucket of Booze was a smallish tavern that the locals liked to call The Puddle of Urine. One besotted man demonstrated while facing into the room's corner. "If you go right here, most of it drains through the floor boards. See?" He stepped away as he pulled on the thin rope that served as his belt.

A stick with a sharp rock tied to one end hung on the back wall of The Pict's Spear. Gwynn afforded the rickety relic a curious glance. The bartender, noting Gwynn's observation, pulled the old weapon from its perch and began to re-enact the spear's acquisition from a furious pict warrior. He bellowed his prowess as he gesticulated wildly with his hands, fists and finally fingers. Part way through the demonstration, a door in the back of the bar creaked open. A small dark face covered with unkempt hair poked its way into the room and whined pitifully. The barkeep cursed and kicked shut the door amidst a room full of laughter. "He kept the pict along with the spear," explained one of the patrons.

Although The Creepy Cultist was more lively than its name suggested, Gywnn still felt uncomfortable by the unwavering, nearly vacant stares from several of the patrons. She sat and fidgeted while Conan drank heavily at a noisy table. On a whim, she stared back at them, thinking they would blink. But only an occasional sloppy gulp from a clay mug interrupted their lax gaze.

When they approached The Amorous Monkey, a man ran out the door, red faced and furious. He turned and shouted through the doorway, "You keep that animal away from me, you hear?" Conan walked past this establishment and they continued their search for information elsewhere.

They entered a bar called Human Dignity, which was completely deserted. Chairs were lined properly with tables and the image of an Ibis adorned one wall, but neither proprietor nor customer lingered here.

After an unsettling experience at The Happy Rat, they found themselves in The Copper Coin. "There aren't any rats here, right?" asked Gwynn in an un-nerved voice. They saw no rats, only men and women smiling encouragement at each other, generously displaying their respective gum lines and the occasional tooth. Gwynn found an empty stool and plopped down by herself. Characteristically, Conan trudged his way to the loudest table in the establishment, leaving Gwynn to absorb an atmosphere of drunken love.

Gwynn waited, lurking in her own shadowy nook, avoiding the pale yellow light that seemed to leak desperation into the dilapidated room. At a table nearby, Conan sat with a group of local laborers, developing the kind of heartfelt friendships that come only through profound inebriation.

"An' jus' think. Me hangin' out with a barbarian from the great north, like you," slurred one of the patrons. With bemused eyes, Conan let his head weave in drunken agreement.

Gwynn sighed. She had just lost every last coin she owned to cheap drink, with no apparent result. And she was tired. She allowed her face to drop into upturned hands and tried to rest her eyes. Idly, she wondered if she could ever wash the smell from her clothing.

Suddenly, Conan was standing beside her, fully alert. "Come. I've found the Conglomerate leader."

Confused but happy to be leaving this abode of smoke and delirium, Gwynn followed him outside into the velvet evening. "Where is he? How do you know? Weren't you drunk, like, just now?" Words tumbled from her mouth as she followed Conan downhill, toward the city's docks.

Conan answered. "I've spent the day talking to merchants and dock workers. The Conglomerate owns all the buildings in the lower city near the wharf. I've heard an account of what each is used for, except for one. Nobody does business with one strange stone tower that looks over the other buildings. It's called the Colonthaler Tower. He is there."

Then Conan glanced back at Gwynn as she stumbled in and out of a run in an effort to keep pace with his long strides. "I can swallow a barrel of Namedian wine and still drink more than a table of sailors. A few mugs of watered ale will barely wet my lips."

* * * * *

"Can't you just use your sword to chop them up or something?" asked Gwynn. She crowded into the mouth of a narrow ally and tried to become one with the shadows of the night. Conan moved effortlessly into the darkened background and seemed to disappear.

Across the street, they could see two armored guards standing alert in front of the Colonthaler Tower. A single torch hung over its arched entrance, illuminating a small courtyard filled with the meaty weeds that seemed to grow between every brick and cobblestone in the city. The arch itself was filled with a solid looking double door made of thick wood beams and banded with metal. Although square at its base, the tower tapered into smaller squares as it rose until it became round in its last attempt to reach the darkened sky.

"They would just call more guards," explained Conan. "Besides, the doors are probably barred from the inside." He paused. "And swords are best for stabbing, not chopping."

Again, Conan fell silent as he eyed the dark tower outlined subtly against the night sky. A single window near its top shone yellow, flickering slightly from a flame that danced within.

Feeling exposed, Gwynn crouched into a pose of stealth. "Do you ever get used to it? The smell of the city, I mean?"

"You would be better hidden if you stopped moving," suggested Conan. Then slowly, he wrinkled his nose. "No. Cities smell bad. But here a man can always find drink, women and a poorly guarded coin-purse nearby."

Gwynn stared at the guards, who in turn watched a very drunk peasant slouched against a nearby wall. His head lolled forward and he snored pleasantly while a small group of ragged street kids deftly picked through his pockets.

Conan continued to gaze upward. Finally, he spoke. "There are ways to the top other than through the front door." He gestured toward the window. "Your Conglomerate leader is there. I will speak to him of your father." Conan slid into the shadowed street. Although Gwynn could no longer see him, she heard his last command. "Wait here."

* * * * *

Conan hung by the finger tips of his left hand. Directly above, yellow light spilled through the window onto a stone sill before continuing into the depths of night. Looking down past his feet, he could see the deserted roof that tapered wider as it neared the ground.

With a shrug of his muscled shoulder, he propelled himself upward. Grabbing the sill with his other hand, he pulled himself head-first through the window. Following his momentum, Conan continued to roll through the air until he landed on his feet inside the tower.

Shelving followed the curve of the wall from ceiling to floor, interrupted only by the room's single door. A pair of elaborate candelabras illuminated the spines of hundreds of red vellum books, each adorned with a strange golden symbol that seemed to twist and writhe in a disturbing dance. These symbols reflected a dull luster of flickering light toward the tower's center.

A well dressed man with immaculate hair sat in the middle of the room. At his front sat an ornate desk made of a dark, ebony wood. With an expectant sigh, he lay down his quill next to an open book. Partially rising, he shifted the direction of his chair before reseating himself to face Conan.

"Conan, if I'm not mistaken," he surmised in a well mannered voice. "I have no intention of fighting you and I promise not to summon my security," he said as he motioned at Conan's half drawn sword.

Conan let his weapon slide back into its sheath. "How do you know my name?"

"You and your friend have been asking about me all day. I run a business of a certain size. It was only a matter of time before you spoke with one of my associates. My name is Dabir. To answer your next question, yes, I own and run the Ulanec Conglomerate." He leaned back against the red cushions of his throne-like chair, also made of ebony.

"I believe you are concerned about an abduction of a former associate of mine. Let me assure you, we have no involvement in any such kidnapping. Everyone on Conglomerate property is here because they choose to be."

Suddenly, the muffled smacks of a fist fight could be heard nearby. Something heavy thudded into the door, busting the latch from its frame. The door flung open to a tower guard stumbling backward. Gwynn, holding the front of his chain shirt with both hands, stood at the room's entrance wearing a frightening grimace and a blackened eye. A second tower guard approached from behind, holding his bloodied nose.

"Please, please, we don't need a conflict here," pleaded Dabir in an over-reasoned tone. "Let us release one another, stop this fighting and talk through our differences."

Gwynn appeared to agree. She released the tower guard, allowing him to fall on his butt, his chain mail clattering around him. She looked at Conan. "The tower entrance was not barred from the other side, after all." Conan gave her a single nod, conceding the point.

"Come." Dabir motioned to Conan and Gwynn. The tower guards took their position on either side of the door. "I believe we have had a misunderstanding that needs to be cleared.” He reached to close his book before realizing the mutual stares of Conan and Gwynn. "Names of my management team," he explained. "And a few details about their current location, recent activities and the like. Ours is a large organization involving many cities." He glanced at the reams of books lining the wall. "We've had some turnover through the years."

"My father." Gwynn directed her accusation at Dabir. "You had men wearing brass masks take him. Where is he?"

"Your father," echoed Dabir. "Arak, if I'm not mistaken. Would I that your search ended now. Alas, no. Neither I nor any under my direction abducted your father. We have no masks of brass here. It sounds like a terrifying spectacle." He shook his head in mock empathy. "Arak was our friend. We worked with him on several projects. In fact, we had just invited him to take a position in management."

"Tell us what you know about the masks." Gwynn spoke in a tone laced with hostility and disbelief.

"This sounds like a religious group," offered Dabir. "Many religions use such masks to represent or invoke the spirit of their god." He leaned back with a smile, confident in his explanation. "You see, we at Ulanec don't need the gods to direct our lives. Our food, our security. Our culture and sense of purpose. Through our organization, I can provide these in a more sane, productive fashion than any religion."

"I can provide those for myself and the pits of Arallu take your purpose," stated Conan.

"Well, civilization isn't for everyone," Dabir responded.

"I spent the day talking to those who work for you. Few do well in your organization. You steal their hard work."

"Our organization provides many opportunities for those it employs. Hard work opens door." He touched his finger tips together and leveled a hard stare at his guests. "Speaking of which, feel free to look around the building. I get the feeling you will give me no peace until you do. After that, you might want to try the college at the top of the hill here in town. They might know something about your brass masks."

Dabir reached for his quill and started to return his attention to the book on his desk. He paused as if he had just realized something. "One more thing. I'm a busy man and I value my privacy. Once you are satisfied that your father isn't here, leave. And don't return." He produced a thin smile of assumed agreement.

* * * * *

Sometime past the mid of night, between the hours of late and early, a woman faced a man in the low light of a quiet inn.

Gwynn grimaced at the greasy liquid in her cup and returned it to the table untouched. "It smells as bad as the rest of the city," she complained.

"It drinks," Conan responded. He took a long swallow as if to prove his point.

They had searched diligently through the whole of Colonthaler Tower. Most rooms seemed to have been workspaces dedicated to producing documents relating to the Conglomerate. The "dungeons" had been nothing more than storage for parchment and paper.

They had, of course, been escorted by the tower guards, but surprisingly the guards had not interfered with the search. The injured guard had stopped the blood flow by inserting a small piece of cloth into each nostril.

Afterward, they had taken a table at the nearest inn.

"I don't know where else to look," said Gwynn in a tired voice. "My father didn't do business with anyone else." She breathed an exhausted sigh. "I can't pay you any more than I already have, but I could really use your help. If you're willing." She looked at Conan with pleading eyes.

Conan pulled a small bag from his belt and tossed it to the table with a jangled thump. "It's about what you gave me earlier."

Gwynn looked puzzled. "Where did you get this?"

Conan smiled. "Some of my drinking friends had money."

"You stole it," she accused. Conan shrugged."Do they know it's missing?"

"Probably not. They were drunk." Conan continued to smile smugly. Gwynn looked at the money, hesitated then took it.

"I came to this city to sell my sword arm. Dabir seems to be the only buyer here. I probably would not see much coin from him. Besides, I don’t like him. I will stay a while longer and help find your father."

Gwynn allowed her shoulders to sag. "Thank you," she said in a small voice.

* * * * *

"A farmer and a barbarian. What a delightful combination. No, you may not enter the college!" A very fat man leaned back from his display of incredulity while barely concealing a self righteous smirk. He patted into place the embroidered red shirt that followed the ample slope of his stomach.

Behind the pudgy scholar, two guards lounged, barely at attention. One guard made some small effort to adjust his tilted helmet and quickly gave up. He re-assumed his position by leaning against the nearest available pillar.

Beyond the guards, an open sky colonnade marched through a garden of gurgling fountains and trailing plants before stopping at the ornate entrance to the College of Samara. It was said that this celebrated college of carved stone contained all knowledge concerning the city and the world beyond.

Gwynn touched Conan's wrist as he subtly shifted his weight forward. "Please," she whispered.

Blissfully unaware of his peril, the scholar chortled an addendum. "You might try the college at the bottom of the hill. It's more of a community oriented institution. I hear the laborers at the wharf pull from their very best to staff their school."

"It would only have delayed our search," explained Gwynn as they retreated from the College.

"He should pray to his gods that we never meet again," said Conan with an angry mutter.

* * * * *

"Welcome to our school of advanced learning." The instructor squinted at the river as it reflected the morning sun. The wharf was busy with the activities of dock workers loading and unloading ships and boats of all sizes. In front of the instructor, a handful of students sat in a semi-circle on crates, coils of rope and anything else they had been able to find.

The school had been easy to locate. Conan and Gwynn had approached a group of workers pulling at the ropes of a crane that rose over a nearby river barge. They had asked about the school and had been immediately rewarded with a number of workers pointing toward an area further along the dock. "...too lazy to find a real job..." one opinionated worker had explained. The others had stood in silent agreement.

After a short walk, a small island of contemplation that was the school had presented itself.

"Can anyone tell me which religions or parochial groups will wear a mask made of brass?" asked the instructor as he stroked his trimmed, white beard. On his other arm, he balanced an open book. A canvas bag at his feet held more books.

Most of his students assumed a respectful pose and waited for the wisdom of their schoolmaster. However, one hand shot willfully into the air.

"Ooh, ooh. Sir, I know, sir."

"Anyone besides Korman?" asked the instructor in an exasperated voice. Nobody responded and finally the instructor nodded in Korman's direction.

Korman cleared his throat. "A number of religions use masks for ceremonies and services including..." He began to cite a list of exotic names.

The instructor interrupted. "Due to our guest's circumstances, I think we are looking for something more local."

"Yes, yes. Of course, sir." Korman began talking his way through another list before the instructor again spoke.

"Maybe something within a few days to a week’s travel?" The instructor's eyes wandered unfocused across the horizon as if he was merely trying to find an end to the conversation.

"You mean Grothma?"

"Yes, Korman. I mean Grothma."

"Well, about forty seasons past, the cult of Xocchottle established itself in the city of Grothma with the advent of..."

"Very good," responded the instructor abruptly. He faced Conan and Gwynn. "I hate to admit, but Korman is right. Members from the cult of Xocchottle have visited Samara regularly for the past several years. Rumor has it they are looking for an apostate of their order. I've tried to learn more, but they are difficult to approach."

The instructor opened his mouth to continue then paused at a thought. "Say, Korman. I think you have yet to complete an internship. Our guests are not familiar with the cult of Xocchottle and may need some help. Go with them."

"We don't need him," Conan started to say.

Gwynn quickly spoke over him. "We'll take any help we can get. Thank you."

Korman rose awkwardly from his seat, displaying his rotund figure. "Uh, won't that be dangerous, sir? The interaction between the Cult of Xocchottle and the population of Grothma isn't - ".

"- as enlightened as we have become accustomed to here in Samara? Yes, I have considered that. But our guests seem well able to provide any protection you might need." The instructor suddenly seemed unable to stop grinning. "From what I have heard, the cult communicates with glyphs and sigils." With the tip of his finger, he sketched an invisible pattern in the air. "See what you can learn of this. We will all be excited to hear your report upon your return," he concluded happily. Once more, the instructor wiggled his finger through a mock sigil before allowing his hand to fly open. He shrugged and laughed.

Korman sighed and started forward, shuffling through an aisle littered with resting feet. "S'cuse me," he recited in a voice that suggested he spoke the phrase often. "S'cuse me."

* * * * *

From the top of his mount, Conan's directed gaze picked through a landscape of boulders and desiccated dirt. Nothing moved except for an occasional clump of dried vegetation that tumbled over the ground, nudged along by the desert wind. Nothing was out of place. Nothing extraordinary, nothing of note. Still, some sixth sense warned Conan.

Behind Conan rode Gwynn, her father's sword proudly buckled to her saddle. Conan had not been impressed. "Better to carry one of your pitchforks," he had said. "At least you know how to use one of those."

Riding next to Gwynn, Korman leaned forward, grabbing the bottom lip of either side of his saddle in a desperate attempt to keep his balance. So far, he had fallen only once. Their well mannered steeds were used to long days dragging a plow and they seemed content simply plodding along the desert path.

Korman's weight shifted unexpectedly and a frantic grab at the reins steered his horse into Gwynn's mount. "S'cuse me," he mumbled.

Gwynn looked back. She could still see the Ilbars River glistening silver as it wended its way past Samara and into the valley before emptying into the Vilayet Sea.

Conan abruptly stopped and motioned for silence. Gwynn grabbed the reigns of her mount and those of Korman's, halting both animals.

Suddenly, motion erupted all around them. From either side of the trail, men leapt from behind boulders and a natural rise in the ground.

Three men, unshaven and oily with grime, advanced on Conan. "Get off your horse and we'll make this quick," said one.

Conan's face stretched into a humorless grin and he locked a furious gaze upon the man. "You could try running, but I would probably just stick a sword in your miserable back."

"No need to get personal, barbarian. We're just doing a job."

Two long daggers and an axe moved forward. Conan ripped his sword from its sheath and kicked his horse forward into a charge. The horse was large and strong, but slow as the fields it plowed. The man easily leapt to one side, joining his two companions. The dirty trio raised their weapons and ran at Conan.

Conan cursed his mount and left its back, throwing himself at his assailants. He swung his sword, swatting away their attacks with a stuttered clang of metal on metal an instant before bodily slamming into the small group. All involved hit the ground hard in an explosion of powdered dirt.

The trio of bandits sprawled and tried desperately to stand, but Conan rolled through his fall and gained his feet in an instant. Reversing his grip, he used his sword like a dagger and jabbed the blade through a fallen bandit. The bandit's back arched in a spasm and he died with a noisy gurgle.

The remaining two now stood. One man muscled his axe through the air with a powerful but clumsy swing. Conan easily ducked the attack, lunged and impaled the man. Conan’s blood smeared blade stuck out of the bandit’s back. The hollow sound of a man's last breath passed from the bandit’s chest like stale air from an old tunnel.

Conan pushed the corps from his sword, throwing the body into the last assailant. The bandit cursed the name of the snake god Set and threw the body to the ground. But Conan had followed the body, closing fast upon his opponent. The bandit's eyes opened wide with terror as he prepared to scream his last, but his efforts came too late. Conan ended the bandit's life with one bloody stroke of hardened steal.

Three more bandits stepped onto the trail, late to the fight, with daggers held low and dangerous. Conan gritted his teeth in a silent snarl and moved between the two nearest. With a single swing, his sword snapped through an arced path that tore open the throat of one and crunched through helmet and skull of the other. Daggers and bodies dropped together to the ground.

Realizing his peril, the remaining bandit turned to flee. With two quick strides, Conan closed the distance and jammed his sword between the bandit's shoulder blades. Arms flew wide flinging a dagger into the air.

Only one bandit assaulted Gwynn. Thinking her easy prey, the armed assailant reached up with his off-hand, intending to drag her from the horse. Gwynn pulled her sword from its sheath and, with a powerful swing, brought it down on her attacker's helmet. She connected clumsily with the flat of her blade. The sword busted in two, sending most of the blade spinning into the dirt. Gwynn was left holding the grip and a short jagged portion of the blade.

Her attacker reeled back from the blow, giving Gwynn room to dismount. She charged at the stunned man, grabbed a fistful of cloth from his front and shoved him to the ground. Kneeling on the man's chest, she used her sword's pommel to hammer several large divots into his helmet, knocking him senseless.

Gwynn looked for more attackers, but found none.

Korman had spilled from his horse and now lay in the dirt. He rolled to his side and flung both arms forward, giving him enough momentum to reach a sitting position.

"Wow! I've never seen anything like that before." Korman huffed and grunted his way to his feet. "High-yah!" He swung his arm, chopping at the air. "It was just like that, right Mr. Conan?" he shouted enthusiastically. "Take that!" Again, Korman assailed an invisible bandit.

Conan stood amidst a litter of disfigured bodies, ignoring Korman completely. He tore a piece of shirt from a dead man and used it to clean viscera from his sword. He stared at Gwynn who continued to kneel on her opponent with her father's broken sword still clutched in one hand. Conan ruminated a moment more and then seemed to decide something. Reaching toward the ground, he picked up the axe and walked to her. He tossed the wide bladed weapon to the ground.

"Next time, use this."

Little effort was needed to gather their horses. These were domestic animals and even the fighting hadn't driven them far.

Using a recently abandoned dagger, Conan expertly separated purses from their deceased owners. "They each have three silver coins cast in Samara," he commented.

Gwynn gave him a sharp look. "Why would they all have the same amount?" She let the thought trail before voicing her conclusion. "They weren't trying to rob us. Somebody hire them to kill us. Why?" Quickly, she strode to her still prone attacker. "We will ask. Mine isn't dead. I just hit him on the head. He should be alive."

Using the flat of her hand, she attempted to slap him awake.

Conan's shadow fell over the pair. "He bleeds yellow from his ears. You broke his skull. He'll not wake."

Nearby, Korman stared with an astonished look at one of the dead men. "Ooh, he's really dead, isn't he?"

"We should go," said Conan in a flat voice. Korman experimentally nudged the corpse with his toe.

* * * * *

Conan and Gwynn stood close, silhouetted face to face in the pale half moon of the Zuagir desert. Gwynn looked down then lifted her head. Her eyes met Conan's. Her lips parted, but still she made no sound. Conan spoke first.

"Hit the shield."

With a guttural cry of aggression, Gwynn flung her axe forward. Metal scraped metal and Gwynn reeled to the ground. She sat there for a moment wearing an expression of personal disappointment. After a moment, she regained her feet.

Nearby, their horses had settled for the night and their small campfire flickered. Korman sat near the fire, clutching at his thigh. "I can't move my legs," he hollered pitifully. His voice carried across the jagged landscape and sailed into the darkness. Both Conan and Gwynn ignored him.

"Why did you fall?"

"Because you're a miserable cur?" suggested Gwynn with wide-eyed over expressed curiosity. Conan returned a look that suggested he had no interest in her sarcastic humor. She let her face relax and answered more sincerely. "I threw my balance too far forward. But you knocked me down with that shield," she accused.

"As any enemy would do. Don't give your balance to your opponent. Position your feet strong upon the ground and use your arms to strike. Try again. Hit the shield."

Again, with a grunt of effort, Gwynn struck at Conan. Again, the clash of metal rang through the night. And again, Gwynn fell.

Wrapped in his own little world of misery, Korman whined at his fleshy legs sprawled before him.

* * * * *

"It still smells like unwashed bandit." Gwynn wrinkled her nose at the leather jerkin she had salvaged from the fight two days prior.

Broad leaves fountained from the top of tree trunks, casting some welcome shade over the travelers. This was a small oasis, big enough to support a paltry copse, but no more. The horses drank from a puddle of brown water that slowly seeped to the surface.

"He vomited right here." Gwynn pointed at a patch of vest that covered her stomach. A few metal plates, sewn to the coarse fabric, shone dully. The fabric underneath, however, had kept the irregular blemish.

Conan grunted an absent response and continued to stare at Korman. "He looks too round to keep his balance."

Korman had had a problem: he couldn't simultaneously read and ride a horse. He had approached the problem with what tools he had. Using a length of cord, he had measured every aspect of his horse. He had scribbled symbols in his book. He had dropped objects (mostly rocks) from his horse and counted their fall. More symbols had been added to his book.

"Whatcha got going there?" Gwynn had asked.

"Mathematics," had been Korman's cryptic response.

However, results speak for themselves and even Conan had been mildly impressed at the sight of Korman bumping along with a book wedged between his bedroll and his belly.

"And what's with only using a sword for stabbing?" Gwynn interrupted Conan's somber musings. "So you say, but I've seen you fight. You use the edge of your blade all the time."

"I'm Conan. I can use a sword in ways that most can't." He returned his attention to Korman.

Gwynn gave up trying to talk with Conan and nudged her horse toward Korman. "That looks like an expensive book," she commented. "Pages of calf skin if I'm not mistaken. Where did you get it?"

"Before we left, I told my instructor that I couldn't give up my studies. I said that I wouldn't leave without a book." Korman spoke while keeping his eyes directed at the large volume in front of him. "So he gave me a book."

Gwynn began a slow nod while Korman licked his thumb for better traction to turn the heavy pages.

"You know, some people say some pretty hard things about the instructor. That he's stingy and self centered. But deep down, he's really a considerate guy."

Korman continued to study the open book while Gwynn looked away with raised eyebrows. She nodded through a moment of personal insight.

Conan grinned glumly with a look that said he wasn't surprised.

* * * * *

Conan moved forward and, with blinding speed, swung his sword in an overhead chop. Gwynn stood ready, holding her axe vertically at her front. She jerked it upward. Conan's sword ricocheted with a clang from her wide blade. She shuffled her feet left and slightly forward, then delivered a back handed swing. Conan ducked the blow as Gwynn shifted her weight, allowing her to carry the momentum of her axe into another swing.

Conan stepped away and lunged inside her guard, attempting to grab her arm. He yanked at her wrist, forcing her to pivot so her exposed side faced him. But he was not able to make his grip firm and with a terrific effort, Gwynn wrenched away from him.

Now Conan struck with vigor. Gwynn had to back away from several fast attacks while she brought her axe to her front.

Conan held up one hand, calling a stop to the contest. Both let the tops of their weapons drop to the dirty sand. They stood for a moment breathing hard before Conan spoke.

"Better. But take care on your approach. A savvy warrior will see even a small opening and kill you there."

Gwynn nodded. Sheer fatigue allowed her to accept the critique without complaint. "Lesson learned," she said in a weary voice.

For nearly a week now, long days of travel had been followed by intense sessions of practice. Gwynn had quickly learned that Conan was not an easy teacher. If she was sloppy with her attacks or failed to use what she had learned in previous bouts, she would hit the ground hard. Still, she had become as familiar with her war axe as any tool on the farm.

Together, they walked toward the excited little flame that marked the center of their camp. Night had crawled over the landscape leaving the sky nearly dark.

Korman sat with crossed legs, tilting his book toward the fire to capture what light he could on the open pages. Seeing his companions approach, he gave up trying to read in the tricky light. He closed his book allowing it to lie in his lap.

"So Conan," said Korman trying to introduce a conversation.

Conan sat on the other side of the fire carefully inspecting his sword for damage. "Hmmm," he responded without looking up.

"I hear you're from Cimmeria. So you must worship Crom." Korman nodded in assumed agreement and paused for Conan to confirm. Receiving only silence, Korman continued. "I've read that Crom doesn't receive petitions from his followers. What then is your motivation to follow this God?"

Conan slowly swiveled his head to meet Korman's gaze with piercing eyes.

"I have witnessed those whose prayers were answered by their God. They pay a dear price for these gifts. Our way is more honest than most religions."

Korman cleared his throat and put one finger thoughtfully on his lips before he again spoke. "So tell me, what rituals do you practice to observe his divinity?"

"We kill our enemies, dangerous or annoying," Conan growled ominously.

Korman looked up to see Gwynn standing next to him. "Maybe we shouldn't bother Conan. This can be a touchy subject for him," she suggested.

Korman nodded. "I understand. The subject of religion can be a difficult topic for many." He carefully wrapped his book in a length of cloth and tucked it into his saddlebag.

Conan scowled silently.

* * * * *

In the desert, one may find it easy to lose any sensation of progress when darkness, quiet and cold, hides the surrounding ground. Only a moonlit portion of landscape, a jagged relief of rooftops climbing above the city's wall, offered some sense of movement as the trio of horses walked the incline toward the faint hope of warm quarters and hot food.

"I think it's getting bigger," suggested Korman, squinting through tired eyes at the facade of Grothma. Gwynn nodded mutely as Conan stared into the night, alert even at this late hour.

They had misjudged, somewhat, the distance to Grothma, causing them to push on past evening. "You're close," a wagon master had said at an earlier point on the road. "Less than a day's travel."

So they had continued, hoping for more comfort than is provided by a bedroll stretched upon the desert floor. But the travelers may not have considered that caravans typically parked some way from the city's walls, entering only by day and leaving before the sun sank too far into the horizon. This arrangement "...provides for a more settled sleep," one of the wagoners had explained.

"Not much light for an inhabited city," observed Conan. "You would think more torches would burn. Few would find advantage in streets so dark." Indeed, as they approached, they could pick out some few spots of light reflecting dull from the upper walls of a few scattered structures, but most of Grothma was void of illumination. Only the occasional stately pillar of smoke dispersing into a faint miasma of moonlight suggested human habitation.

One source of light did stand out. Dark cliffs rose behind the city, apparent only as a different shade of black against the night sky. As they drew near the city, they could see, embedded some way up the rock wall, an orange light streaming between pillars of some unknown structure.

Each of the three looked upon this strange light in the cliffs with an unexplained feeling of unease, but said nothing until Korman offered an explanation.

"I think - ". He paused before starting again. "I think that is the Temple of Transition, particular to the cult of Xocchottle. According to my studies, priests used to perform human sacrifices twice within a full day. However, my source of information is old. I would say, it is very likely they have stopped this practice."

Suddenly, from this strange illumination in the cliffs, a voice screamed in protest and fear before ceasing abruptly, although the echoes between the cliff and city walls could be heard for some moments afterward. A single hollow note, as if somebody had struck a large drum, burst forth before it too echoed into silence.

"Don't be too sure of yourself," said Conan to Korman.

Carved rock that ran the city's wall stopped at a heavier piling of stone: two short towers, one on either side of an arched entryway. A slot in the arched ceiling suggested a portcullis once dictated movement in and out of the city.

"Someone forgot to shut the door," Gwynn observed.

"Nobody to watch the entrance," commented Conan. "This city must not fear night time raids from brigands."

A shape shifted through a faint background of torchlight drifting from deep within the city. Both Conan and Gwynn pulled free their weapons.

From a shadow, distinct from the unlit stone only through its movement, came a voice, sibilant and halting. "Your presence has been noted."

Although vaguely human in form, the shape moved awkwardly as if its knees were jointed in the wrong direction and the sound of its feet upon the stone entryway was reminiscent of hooves. Then all shadows blended and the form was gone. All three stared at the area under the arch from which had come the strange greeting.

"I think it's gone." Gwynn's voice held the note of a question. Conan nodded and led their way through the short tunnel into Grothma.

They moved between dark structures separated by streets that may once have been cobbled, but now lay covered in dirt and desert sand. Dirt, piled high at the road's side, thinned at its center and served as a canvas for the tread of feet, hooves and wagon wheels. However, though shortly after nightfall, neither creature nor human traveled the ways of Grothma.

Above, however, on roofs and on the tops of walls, sat a multitude of feline shapes grooming themselves with small tongues and sometimes throwing a paw at their neighbor. But mostly, they stared at the moon above which, although not yet full, still floated dominant in the dark sky.

"Cats," said Korman in a voice filled with wonder. "All around us."

"We're probably safe from vermin," suggested Gwynn. She had meant to speak with a tone of dry humor, but an element of awe remained in her voice.

They entered a rare patch of torchlight at the clopity-clop pace of walking horses. When they returned to the darker avenues of the city and looked up, all cats had gone.

"Where - ?" began Korman. He left the question unspoken.

Conan glowered at the empty roof tops as if the mystery of the cats had given him personal insult.

They wandered for a short time looking for some sign of welcome, but throughout the city, dark entryways led to doors shut and barred.

"Any other city would be filled with opportunities to separate coin from purse," observed Conan. "Especially this time of night. But I don't see a single brothel or bar. I would have expected at least a pickpocket by now. Just ghosts and shadows," he summed. He looked deep into the gloom.

Suddenly Conan stopped, signaling the others to do likewise. He lifted his chin and sniffed while looking at the surrounding buildings. "I smell goat cooking over a flame." He tested the air with a wet finger. "This way."

Gwynn and Korman dismounted and followed Conan to a door that wasn't locked.

* * * * *

Letman was a barkeep. At least he used to be. These days he spent most of his time sitting in the front room watching the door. He wasn't entirely sure of the threat against which he guarded. Simply put, he felt it necessary.

Life had not always been so. When he had first opened his establishment in Grothma, he had worked every task. He had been cook, server, janitorial and maintenance as well as a dear friend to many a broken hearted soul lost in their drink. And he had done his duty as a plumber, which involved throwing a mixture of dirt and ash into a hole, so lessening the smell. Letman nodded and hummed to himself at the fond memories.

Then the cult of Xocchottle had arrived in Grothma. They had been men and creatures similar to men. And some not so similar. As time passed, the cult had become more central to the city, transitioning from a curious social anomaly housed in a non-descript building at the city's periphery, to an active force in the community. Slowly, its members had trickled into positions of power in government and local business.

And, slowly, Letman had become uneasy. At first, he had simply paid somewhat more attention to his tavern's front door - another chore added to his already busy routine. As the cult had grown in power, he had become more obsessed with managing the traffic that passed in and out of his tavern. This was merely prudent, he had told himself. You never know who or what might come knocking. He had tried to laugh at this, even as a creeping sense of dread grew daily.

Finally, he had moved his common room and kitchen to the back of the building and hired his niece to cook and tend customers.

Letman sat now in the front room, empty except for a chair and table which supported a single lit candle burning weakly. An old curved sword, dulled by rust and time, leaned against the wall, ready for immediate use.

On this night, Letman's years of watching his door came to fruition. He heard horses. Sounds of people talking rose, then fell to silence. Letman rose from his chair and froze, his hand hovering over the pommel of his resting sword. Breathing fast and silent, he listened for those he hoped would pass by. He heard nothing. They must have gone, he reasoned. He began to relax.

Something heavy impacted the door. It surged open, hit the wall with a thud and rebounded. Letman snatched up his sword and stopped. Outlined in his door's frame stood a heavily muscled northern barbarian who looked at him with piercing, coal black eyes that spoke nothing of the whimsical ways of men. Behind the barbarian strode a woman with strong shoulders. A wicked looking axe hung from a wide belt that wrapped around the top of her britches. Outside, on the step, a young man approached with a belly so large that he seemed to move in the manner of a grounded fowl.

"Ho, man. Put down your knife," commanded the barbarian. "We seek beds and a meal. We don't bring a quarrel, here."

Letman quickly considered his situation. He could safely ignore the portly man, but the other two moved with awareness. They let their weapons rest at their sides and their eyes reflected no fear at his drawn blade. This was not his time to fight. Besides, this trio didn't represent that nameless threat for which he waited.

Letman placed his sword on the table. "You do no-one any favors by keeping that door open wide." He jerked his head toward the building's interior. "Go to the room in back. It is used for common purpose."

With that said, he shuffled past his new guests to grab their horses and, reins in hand, headed toward the stables. "Least they ain't monsters," he grumbled.

Conan led his party to a room where light from a dim oil lamp shone past old wood support columns. Vague shapes of people shifted through the smoky ether. Distrust and nervous fear stared at them through the eyes of patrons who tried to sink even deeper into the many shadows offered by the room.

The travelers approached an empty table with one end pushed against a wall. In a nearby corner sat a hooded man, his face lit only by the glowing embers of his pipe.

"Ooh, this is one of those dangerous places, isn't it?" queried Korman in careful voice that was heard by all.

Suddenly, the light from the cooking fires was blocked as a woman of some girth rounded the counter that separated kitchen from tables. Her grizzled chin waddled through its own path as she approached.

"What'll you have?" she asked in a coarse voice.

"Are you the barmaid?" asked Korman.

She looked at him critically, before responding. "Yes, I'm the barmaid."

* * * * *

Soon, each was busily chewing through a cheek full of over-cooked goat leg when the hooded man tapped out his pipe, rose and approached. He stood at the end of their table, his full focus on carefully placing his pipe between his belt and long shirt. Slowly, he turned his attention to the inhabitants of the table, his eyes peering mysteriously from beneath his hood.

"You're new to this town. Let me be the first to give you a friendly warning. Those who inhabit the streets at night are not such as you and me. It is disturbing, wretched imitations of humanity that skulk through the back and abandoned alleyways. They move in silence and speak in malevolent tongues heard by human ears only in nightmares."

"Do they look like cats?" asked Conan with a wry smile. He tore anther morsel from bone and continued to eat.

"Aye, many cats reside in these parts, but they give companionship to none. Heed my words, the shadows have presence here. Merely step outside and your name will be whispered within shadows when nothing is there to give voice. Run if you can. Step into that lonely circle of light if you dare. There you will stand with your fragile sanity and the desperate hope that the light does not burn itself out."

"And for this, I haven't even a rangy whore to bed," complained Conan between mouthfuls.

"A mate found on these streets would likely have hooves in place of feet," replied the hooded man with an evil smile.

"Could've arranged that back at the farm," offered Gwynn.

From the billows of greasy kitchen smoke stepped the barmaid who landed an open handed whollop on the hooded man's butt. "Have a seat, Charles," she directed. With a hurt look, Charles returned to his corner and sucked furiously on his unlit pipe.

"Don't mind him," chuckled the barmaid. "He likes it." She smeared her hands on an apron filthy with old food, pulled a chair to their table and sat. "You'll be wanting rooms." She looked at Conan. "But we'll give you a discount if you share my bed after the bar closes."

Conan threw a fist full of coins on the table. "This will cover us." His usual scowl deepened even further.

* * * * *

In the light of a single candle, Gwynn hugged her knees before allowing her bare feet to slide luxuriously down the bedding. Her legs slid past relaxed hands and she sighed contentedly at Conan, standing there, his body hard with muscle and subtle movement.

Slowly, she reached for the edge of the sheet, catching it between thumb and finger. With a playful yank, she pulled the thin cloth into a billow and let it settle delicately upon her, covering her - barely.

Conan still stood, his eyes harder, perhaps, than his body. Perhaps.

"Yeah, I know." Gwynn struggled from beneath the sheet and swung her legs over the bedside. "Take care of your weapon and - the better to kill your enemies and all that." She reached for her axe and a whetstone.

"Why does she get the bed," whined Korman. Conan confronted the pouting scholar with a snarl of impatience. Korman suddenly lost interest in the bed and scurried to his bedroll in the room's corner.

Later, with the candle snuffed and the room in full darkness, Conan moved silently through the shadows. Korman's irregular snort had just interrupted Gwynn's soft rhythmic breathing when Conan pushed open the window. He balanced on the frame, reached upward then jumped. His hands found the edge of the roof and he pulled himself to the building's top.

He could see, for the moment, only the dark undefined shape of a city under moonlight. A cool breeze passed by, lightly brushing against his dark hair. He smelled cat shit. Still, it was good to be out of the stuffy little pub.

They had stopped staring at him, eventually. Time had passed and he had become familiar. The patrons had turned to one another, to those whom they knew. They had raised clay mugs half filled with drink and praised their mutual camaraderie, their closed doors and shuttered windows. Their illusion of safety.

Conan had no use for the hierarchy of cowering fools he had seen in the small tavern this evening. He had felt a need for something not so familiar, to get out and see the world for what it was. And maybe he would have to use his sword. So be it. Anything that wanted to whisper at him from some dark alley would get a length of steel through its gut.

The landscape of rooftops slowly gained texture as utter darkness shifted to scales of gray. Conan's gaze followed the city's surrounding walls, made useless by its open gates. Empty streets held only the night, twisting fluidly past jagged intersections before flowing out into the desert.

Subtle movements of shadows played at the edge of Conan's vision. Standing still, he could hear voices, vague with distance, uttering a language that was foreign and unnatural to the human tongue. Slowly, the sounds gathered together and the carful flap of leathery wings drew close.

"Serpentines," somebody had said earlier in the tavern. "Winged men..."

Conan began to move. He limbered his sword arm with a shake and grinned a vicious smile. This night would be fun.

* * * * *

A scream tore through the dark desert air, carrying the descriptive agony of a mortality ripped away. The grizzled serpentine, a veteran of many such hunts, folded its wings and slipped from the alleyway shadows. Slowly, carefully, he moved onto the sidewalk that separated building fronts from the main avenue.

This was not a time for flight. It was a mistake made by those amateur serpentines who were new to the hunt. Flight provided perspective and surprise when approaching your kill, except during these brighter moments of the night lit by a shining moon. At times like these, one could hide on the ground, but not in the sky. You needed to see your prey before it saw you.

This hunt, like all others, was about perspective. Those yet unlearned would likely die tonight.

The serpentine looked again to that pale sphere above. He had spoken with others of his race under this same moon. A warrior had been seen entering the city, a barbarian from the north. The news had spread from one to another. Driven and concerning, word of the barbarian had passed through the city. So the serpentines had gathered in an abandoned temple, old and open to the sky, a former home to some god forgotten long ago. Here they had met amongst ancient marble pillars bathed in supple moonlight, a gathering of wings and teeth and sibilant speech.

The yet unworldly voice of youth had been heard this evening. It's a fight for the heart of the city, they had said. Our kind should perpetuate and succeed here. Us, not them. This is why we hunt.

So they had looked to the big picture for the true heart of the city. They had stepped back from their vision of Grothma, so that all its distinct parts blended together. With the city's gates open, the rest of the world spilled in. And they had retreated their perspective further yet until all parts of the city appeared as one. Abstract. Useless.

No unnecessary killing, someone had demanded of him, trying to further their ideal. He had quickly put a stop to that idea. He knew his craft. Nobody would tell him how to hunt.

Wind shifted and shadows moved. The hunt approached his position. Carefully, the serpentine slid free a long straight dagger before moving to a street corner. This was a dark intersection, hidden from the moon by the surrounding buildings. It would serve well as a killing ground. He would approach his prey from behind and impale this muscled, sword wielding human. He would end this interloper. The human's corpse would fall to the ground and he would step over the lifeless body with little thought and no regret. More prey awaited. He was the true predator here.

Somewhere very close, something displaced a portion of air. The serpentine instantly became aware of all that surrounded him. He flicked his tongue. The air tasted of barbarian. Nothing moved in the silence.

Then, the subtlest of sounds, a soft boot landing carefully - right behind him. He tried to turn, too late. A length of cold metal tore through his gut. He screamed his death to the heart of the city until dark blood filled his lungs and he could scream no more. His life ended with a wet cough and one last rasping gurgle.

Conan placed his foot on the back of his winged prey, pushing the serpentine from his sword. The corpse dropped to the ground. Conan stepped over the body and looked for his next kill.

* * * * *

Conan kept perfectly still, crouched in heavy shadows just below the top of a sloped roof. One hand smeared over the rough texture of thatch. The other was wrapped firmly around the grip of his sword. Poised to leap forward, he remained relaxed. Ready. His next move would have to be timed perfectly.

Directly ahead, two winged men clutched daggers while flopping their way through lazy circles in the air. A small torch leaned out from a wall, affording enough flickering light to reflect dully from their red scaly skin.

This was, of course, an ambush. His first move toward these obvious targets would bring others who now hid around corners, in nearby alleys and just the other side of rooftops. He needed to kill these two quickly. He would then use the leverage of the ground to fight the crowds.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a bare smile as he focused on his targets. This was something he could do.

For a moment longer, Conan remained immobile. Torso and limb strained, ready for the assault. He considered the rhythmic, circular motion of his targets as they moved around each other in a slow dance of awkward flight. The distance he needed to jump, the slope of the roof and the geography of the surrounding buildings - all became an immediate part of Conan's world.

Then, with alarming quickness, every part of his body became involved in a blinding sprint. With three fasts strides, Conan caught the edge of the roof with one foot and he hurled himself at his first opponent. His shoulder slammed into the creature's chest. Bones burst from cartilage and something in the serpentine's middle broke with a sickening crunch. The winged person screamed in pain - its dagger spun from its grasp and slapped onto the wooden surface of a nearby sidewalk.

Conan grabbed his opponent, choking the serpentine. Frantic claws ripped the surface of Conan's skin.

As they began to plummet, Conan swung his sword in an over head loop. His blade split the skull of the second serpentine. Blood and brain matter followed it in a trail to the ground.

Conan hit the street, landing on top of his opponent. With brutal efficiency, he grabbed its head and smashed it open against the street's surface. Tucking his sword underneath his arm, Conan rolled off the serpentine corps and sprang to his feet. He had killed both his targets and gained solid ground beneath him - a full heartbeat before a mob of winged claws and daggers hit. Conan lifted his sword and maneuvered for the attack. He was ready for them.

Even while falling, Conan had seen winged men swarm, jumping over the top of angled roofs. Their feet had hit the near slope and they had bounded into flight. Others had run from alleys and other hidden places, leaping from the ground until their wings caught air.

Now they hovered above him, paused as if they had reached the top of a tall jump.

They screamed as they dove, a strange hollow sound that seemed to finish outside of a human's ability to hear. Narrow forked tongues writhed between sets of pointed teeth. Little else could be seen of these beings in the dim surroundings, except that their large dilated eyes caught a slim crescent of moonlight.

Conan allowed a sneer of contempt to slide across one side of his face.

Arms and weapons reached for him. Then they reached for the spot he had just been standing. Conan's foot thudded solidly into fine dust and he slashed upward twice. A torso ripped open and a limb spiraled to the ground. Conan moved again and thrust upward. Oily blood drizzled onto dirt and cobblestone. Claw and weapons were flung about Conan in a disorganized maelstrom. Metal stabbed at Conan as wings bumped into flying bodies, but none from this unbalanced assault could deliver a deep wound.

Conan grabbed a forearm, threw his luckless opponent to the ground and with a heave of his shoulders, impaled the prone Serpentine.

Several landed seeking a new angle of attack. Conan sprang between two serpentines and hacked his sword through both necks in a single savage move. Then he ran.

Conan knew that attacks from both air and ground might overwhelm him. He sprinted toward the deeper shadows of the road's edge where a roof pushed itself over the walk. Conan spun to face the furious hoard of flopping wings. He had enough time for two ragged breaths before they bowled into him.

Denied the sky, they came on foot.

Conan shifted his grip on his sword. His eyes focused forward and his teeth clenched into a snarl.

"Come and die."

He leapt at the first to approach. Twisting away from a thrust dagger, Conan slammed into the serpentine, knocking it onto its back. Its wings flared awkwardly to either side as Conan trampled it and thrust his sword through the head of another. A small popping sound, like a nail driven through a plank of wet wood, burst through the night. A spray of dark blood flew from the back of its skull, crossing the disk of the moon.

A pair of serpentines wielding long knives thumped to the earth. With bared teeth, they hissed their snarl and charged. Conan circled so that only one at a time could attack. Metal smacked metal as Conan parried an upward thrust. Their blades locked and, for a moment, the glass like globes of demon eyes stared into the face of northern fury. Conan flexed his muscle, shoving the serpentine's knife to the side. Following through with the same motion, he brought his blade around and thrust it through the chest of the winged man in front of him.

The second serpentine managed to circumnavigate the struggle. With help from its wings, it leapt into the air and stabbed downward. Conan's blade whipped upward, catching the serpentine's jaw, splitting face and skull. A small shower of bloody bone fragments sprinkled onto the street. The mutilated serpentine arched backward and landed at the feet of a small crowd of winged men.

Having witnessed the bloody demise of their brethren, a group of serpentines had pulled back into the street to organize their attack.

For the space of several breaths, all was still. The serpentines gathered and faced the walk where Conan waited and prepared. Although they could see well through darkness, the shadows were too deep even for them. They saw nothing except for the piercing glint from a pair of eyes that counted them and plotted their deaths.

They spoke to one another in their wispy voices. They would rush this interloper, pin him to the wall with the sheer weight of their numbers and stab him until he died.

An errant wing batted the air.

Then a command was uttered in a tone that Conan could not fully hear and they ran at him.

Conan shot from his shadowed post. His large hand slammed into the first serpentine to reach him and he threw the winged man into the trailing crowd. Wings tangled with limbs and Conan charged into the chaos.

With a series of swift movements, he hacked at the writhing mob of scaly flesh. A trail of bloody droplets followed his sword every time he raised it for another blow. Arms reached upward, clutching at him, trying to pull him down. Conan simply overpowered them as he battered his way through the crowd. His sword spun into a series of fast strikes, tearing through flesh and severing limbs.

One serpentine rushed at his back, but Conan realized the attack. He spun and his balled fist collided with his opponent's head. Bones broke and the serpentine fell.

Conan kicked his way through his attackers. He slammed his forearm into a toothy face and nearly carved another in half with a downward strike. One serpentine tried to thrust its knife through an opening, but Conan grabbed its wrist with one hand. He forced it to kneel and jammed his sword down through the Serpentine's shoulder and chest.

Conan had broken their charge. They fled.

Those who were still able to fly, fluttered away to surrounding roofs. Many landed and looked back upon their recent struggle and the road that held dead, dying and mutilated Serpentines.

One wounded serpentine lay on the ground screaming its continuous mewling cry. It left a smear of blood upon the ground as it tried to drag itself away from the towering barbarian. Its side had been ripped open and it would soon die, but Conan disliked the sound. He drove his sword through its back with a thunk. It shuddered once and its scream dwindled into a dying gasp.

Another had lost a portion of one leg. Blood dribbled from the remaining stump as it struggled through its flight across the top of the moon. Then its strength failed and it abruptly dropped from the sky.

Conan stood in the middle of the street and looked up at the remaining serpentines perched upon nearby buildings. Sweat mingled with blood to form rivulets trickling down his body. He was still breathing hard.

"Go back to your chicken coops." His voice boomed out in defiance and victory. He drew two more heavy breaths. "Tell your mothers of your cowardice."

They took the insult and slipped from rooftops into the air, leaving Conan alone in a dark street strewn with gore.

* * * * *

He knew he was close when the smell hit him. A slave smelled bad. Many slaves together smelled much worse.

"He's probably a slave," they had said at the tavern. "They keep them at the west end of town. Easier to access the copper mines that way." Then someone had proudly stated that they were not slaves, those who sat in the tavern, afraid to step outside.

Conan sauntered down the center of the street with a confident stride, his viscera smeared sword in hand swinging with the cadence of his walk. The serpentines were gone and his fellow humans explored their servile existence crouched behind closed doors.

For the moment, the town was his - his alone.

Now his destination lay directly ahead, barred only by a door made of old wood planks. Conan barely paused. His foot shot forward, shattering the handle, lock and a portion of the door.

A lantern hanging in front failed to push its weak orange light far into the room. The wall was lined with bunks stacked one after another until they disappeared into a darkness heavy with presence. Groans and other sounds from chained slaves floated from the gloom. Smells of human flesh slick with rancid grime spilled past Conan and through the open doorway into the cool quiet streets of night.

At the room's front, a portly man sprang to his feet, upsetting the table on which, moments before, his head had rested. He grabbed apathetically at his cup - too late. The last dribble of its contents had already splashed across the table. Blinking with groggy eyes, he made a futile attempt to drag his rusted mail shirt past the lower end of his sagging tummy.

Before him stood a hugely muscled northern barbarian with new blood just beginning to crust on his skin and in his matted hair. He wore a grim expression and his sword was smeared black with the gore of demons.

"I don't suppose," the portly man started to say as he licked his lips with a dry tongue. "I don't suppose there's any chance we could talk this over." He hadn't even considered reaching for his weapon.

Conan curled his hand into a fist and smashed it into the man's head. He walked past the deposed sentry even as the man crumpled to the ground.

* * * * *

Conan hung by one hand from the roof's edge, his feet dangling. He opened his hand, and allowed himself to fall a short distance to the sill below. His toes skillfully grabbed the edge and, silent as a cat, he pushed his way through the shutters.

Inside was dark, but he could sense movement from both sides. He instinctively ducked. With one hand he caught the haft of an axe in mid swing. Not half a breath later, he stopped the wild flight of a tome with his other hand and pushed it back into the face of his assailant. A soft body collapsed onto the floor.

"Owww. Is that you Mr. Conan? I hope it's you, because if it's someone else coming through the window like that, then you're probably one of those winged men or a demon or something and you’re about ready to eat us. Oooh, I think I'm bleeding."

"Put down your weapon." He spoke to Gwynn, not Korman.

"You might have told us you were going out," suggested Gwynn in a critical voice. She lit a small oil lamp. The single bed, a three legged stool and a sparse room flickered into view. Gwynn's eyelids flipped open in surprise.

"That's a lot of blood. The black stuff is blood, right?" She touched a spot on his arm and rubbed her thumb and finger together. "It feels greasy. And it smells bad. What kind of creature did you tangle with?"

"Some of the locals tried to stop me from looking for your old man."

"Listen, if a few serpentines stand between me and my father, I'd be happy to knock them down." Her muscled forearm knotted as she clenched her fist.

"You would have been in the way," responded Conan flatly.

"You could have been taken by that brass mask cult for all we knew."

"It's not your fault," said a fully self-involved Korman. He pinched his nose to stop the bleeding. "You couldn't have known that we would try to smack you." Conan ignored him.

"I entered the slave billets. I asked all to name their daughter. None spoke of you."

Gwynn nodded, her face looked worried. "We'll have to go straight at the cult then. Tomorrow. Your wounds need cleaning. I'll go to the kitchen for boiled water and bandages." She exited the room leaving Korman to keep Conan's company.

"The book is okay," said Korman as he examined the cover and spine. "It's all okay." He reached out to give Conan a re-assuring pat on the shoulder, thought better of it and withdrew his hand. He and his book retreated to the corner.

Conan sat on the stool and began to clean his sword.

* * * * *

Grothma was a city of doors. Unremarkable entrances were framed by squares of heat damaged wood or small arches made from brick or adobe. However, it was the doors themselves that allowed for the distinction of in and out, us and them. Shut at night, open in the daylight, they stood as silent sentries of social order in Grothma.

Unlike Samara, vendors here didn't crowd the streets. Rather, a traveler was left to choose whether or not to enter a darkened doorway and, maybe, find what they sought. These doors had just begun to open with the morning glow in the east - the day's sunlight had not yet crept over a hill that sat just outside of town.

"So that's what a serpentine looks like." Korman bent over a corpse still curled around a vicious wound gouged through its torso.

"Korman. Let's move," Gwynn dictated. "We have places to be and a father to rescue." She turned to Conan and pointed. "They said the city rulers live in that direction." Conan and Gwynn moved into the early morning light. Korman stepped over the corpse and scrambled to catch them.

Those citizens of Grothma who rose with the dawn were just beginning to enter the streets. More than one smeared the sleep from their eyes, yawned, then stopped in utter astonishment at the scope of the carnage before them. Mangled serpentines lay strewn about the streets, sidewalks and roofs.

One dead serpentine drooped over its own sword that held it impaled to the door of a small business. The proprietor had grabbed the pommel, shoved one foot against the wall and was trying to remove the weapon.

Next door, serpentine guts and related foul liquids were splattered along the walls. A few steps later, someone leaned over an eviscerated serpentine, then turned and vomited in the street. Nearby, another serpentine hung by its ankle from a misappropriated rope. Most of its head had been cleaved and a seeping pile had collected underneath the body.

"Okay, I' m impressed," admitted Gwynn as they picked their way through a street slick with greasy blood and hewn bodies.

They passed a child who put his hands on his knees and stooped over one of the bodies. "Hey, this one is missing its foot. And part of its arm. And it's been stabbed. And it's been..." The over-inquisitive child squawked as his mother dragged him away from the serpentine corpse.

"...hacked to pieces by a large barbarian." Gwynn finished the child's thought.

Most people reacted in honest surprise at the mass murder that had been committed during the night. At the same time, most seemed unsure how to feel about it. Sure, the serpentines had terrorized the population, driving them indoors at night. But the homicidal violence demonstrated by the bodies that decorated every possible surface, ridiculously posed and broken, was startling to most.

However, one elderly woman appeared chagrinned as she realized that somebody would have to clean up the mess. Two dead serpentines lay upon her old wooden porch. Portions of them lay elsewhere.

"We're traveling a longer path than we need," observed Gwynn. Her eyes opened a little wider as she realized something. "You're showing off, aren't you?" she accused Conan. "That's why we're here. You're bragging."

Conan looked ahead with his usual glum expression. Then, slowly, he smiled.

* * * * *

The city's capitol building, actually a great temple repurposed for religious rule by the cult of Xocchottle, sat on an empty street. Conan and Gwynn stood looking up at a display of carved lettering, a frieze chiseled into the formal triangle of the roof's front. It was a strange script that seemed to move and form a picture as they stared at it.

"It makes me feel like the building itself is about to tell me something I don't want to hear," observed Gwynn. Conan grunted. A slight nod indicated his shared experience.

Broad marble stairs swept up to a colonnaded walk stretched in front of a small dark doorway.

"A grand display for one little entrance," commented Conan. "And little used at that." Nobody had passed through the door since they had arrived. They were eerily alone in this silent street, except that sometimes they would glimpse furtive movement in the distance as those who wished to remain unseen passed quickly between crumbling buildings.

Korman interrupted the stillness with a long exasperated inhale. He breathed out slowly, demonstrating his infinite patience before throwing another permission grabbing look at Gwynn. Gwynn pushed her already open hand a space closer to Korman, enforcing her unspoken command: stop. Korman swung his full focus back to the library next door. Like the temple, it had a splendid walk, but lacked the stairs.

Gwynn rested her other hand atop her axe haft. "I'm ready to have a pointed talk with these brass mask fellows."

Conan shook his head. "I don't mind a good fight, but we should first find out what's in the building."

Gwynn directed an irritated look at Conan. "You just slaughtered half the local population of winged demon men. What's stopping you now?"

"Those inside are probably better organized than the winged men I fought last night. I had room to maneuver and places to hide. Here we might lose the fight." He threw a prudent glance behind him. "We shouldn't stay here long," he added. "We are not hidden."

Gwynn smoldered for a moment. "I suppose we're back to asking the locals. Which means socializing and drinking our way through the town's taverns."

"I agree." Conan ignored her disapproving look.

"Fine," she finally replied and waved Korman toward the library. "We'll return in a few hours."

Korman pounded his way to the library while Conan and Gwynn turned toward more inhabited parts of the city.

* * * * *

"Hello." Gwynn called her greeting through an open doorway. Silence followed. "Nobody there," she concluded.

"Or they kneel, cowering behind furniture," suggested Conan.

Most structures near the temple had been sealed shut or had simply sat on dead sun-baked earth, abandoned. As they walked toward the city gates, buildings gained occupants and some doors opened. The dead earth remained.

Still, they had been unable to find a tavern.

"You can usually hear them," ruminated Conan as they wandered on. "This city is curiously quiet as if much of the population has departed."

Gwynn agreed. "I almost miss the merchants of Samara. At least the cloth tarps they stretch above their stalls offer some shade."

A slow march of dilapidated facades passed behind them. Round ceiling beams jutted from building fronts with adobe crumbling where wood intersected with wall. Off color streaks ran down the old clay, left apparently, by some monumental rain long ago.

Eventually, after plodding through un-swept, silent streets, they heard traces of human activity some distance away. "I think we found the human sector of the city," said Gwynn.

Finally they could see movement. Some way down the street, two young men each pulled an arm of a dead serpentine. They dragged it into an intersection and, without ceremony, released their grips, allowing the corpse to plop to the ground.

"This part of the city was spared your little night-time disaster. So they had to bring a body here?" asked Gwynn incredulously as they approached the intersection. "Why?"

The body was quickly surrounded by others who stroked their chins and spoke in that hum-and-haw way that people do when faced with something new. Suddenly, one bright young man seemed to make a decision and said in a resolute voice, "That'll show 'em."

Those others who stood in the intersection, and the intersection was filling quickly, began nodding and telling the bright young man that he was right about the dead, smelly corpse that lay before them.

"Score one for our side," shouted another. Arms raised and hands collided in mid air with a smack. A voice whooped in celebration and all decided that a festive mood was appropriate here.

"Ho, we seek a place for drink," bellowed Conan as he and Gwynn approached.

"Burton's. Go that way and take a left," said the man and waved an absent gesture toward one of the streets that met with the intersection. He turned and shouted something celebratory to the crowd.

Conan and Gwynn followed the direction, leaving the crowd to recite a baritone "Oooh, oooh, oooh" grunting noise while, in unison, jabbing their fingers at the corpse. Conan looked back to see two young men jumping at each other and rebounding off their respective chests.

Not far off, another Serpentine had been carefully posed next to somebody's front door with its back against the wall. A brimmed hat had been placed on its head and tilted forward so it seemed to be napping.

Across the street, two sets of fingers slowly wrapped around a door frame. Slowly, a head emerged between the hands and eyes blinked uncertainly as if they had not seen daylight for a long time. Close by, a woman stood outside her home. She wasn't in a hurry, scurrying between buildings, quick to get out of sight. She remained still, examining the outside of her home, rapt in the novelty of life without fear. Eventually, she found something out of place, walked over and began straightening.

A man stepped out his door, waved an old scimitar in the air and yelled his bluster at the city. He stopped abruptly, seemed to think better of his actions and returned indoors.

Here and there, people found each other on the street and talked freely.

"How adorable. They found their voices," observed Gwynn sardonically.

* * * * *

Late morning light landed on the floorboards of Barton's Inn. The proprietor weaved his way through groups of customers while expertly keeping a grip of mugs upright and un-spilled. "Never had this many customers so early..." he was saying. He passed his forearm over his bald head, disrupting the pattern of beaded sweat.

The heels of yet another serpentine corpse bumped across the door's threshold. Conan and Gwynn watched patrons enthusiastically throw its back against a support beam and jam a large nail through its chest so the body hung upright while its head sagged down.

A man with a bushy black beard dipped his fingers into the serpentine's wounds and smeared two greasy stripes below one of his eyes. Standing next to the corpse he grabbed his tunic by the neck and yanked it from his body, displaying a chest full of dark hair. He roared fiercely at his accomplishment and the crowd hollered back its approval.

In another part of the room, a group of women stood in a line clapping and chanting in unison.

"How is it, they own the victory, but had no part in the fight?" asked Conan in a dark voice. Sounds of celebration crashed all around them.

* * * * *

As twilight approached, Conan and Gwynn found themselves back at the doorstep of Barton's. Information had been hard to come by. Sure, people had been willing to talk. But with a town in the midst of re-discovered revelry, few had seemed able to focus on the serpentine threat which now seemed far away.

So they had passed from tavern to inn to makeshift brothel. Not one such establishment had displayed a sign in front, but the locals and the occasional traveler had been happy to direct them. Everywhere, rooms full of happy people had welcomed them.

Even the tavern where they had slept had lost its collective gloom. Letman had had a couple of friends sitting at his table in the front room. When Conan and Gwynn had entered, he had choked a little, lowered the mug from his mouth and waved them in with a smile. Inside, somebody had acquired a serpentine's head. With full embellishment, they had pitched the head to the ground and performed a short victory dance where the head had hit.

Now they stood at the doorway of Barton's listening to a cacophony of cheer. Little had changed, except that the noise was louder and the light spilled out of the doorway instead of in.

"Do we go in? Again?" asked Gwynn. Conan didn't have an answer.

"There you are. You guys forgot to get me." The familiar voice of Korman skipped across adobe walls as he meandered down the street. "But that's okay, because I found someone who can find your father, Gwynn," he said cheerfully.

Conan and Gwynn looked again and saw another figure with Korman that kept to the shadowed edge of the street as it moved. They could make out its turban even beneath the darkening skies. The rhythmic click of hooves followed its movements.

"Your presence is requested," said the figure in an odd voice.

Korman smiled at his achievement and folded his arms around what appeared to be a new book.

Gwynn looked incredulously at Korman. Then she shrugged. "I was tired of being ignored, anyway. And these decorative carcasses are beginning to stink. Stink bad."

"So much for a strategic approach," muttered Conan.

* * * * *

"Where did you get the book?" Gwynn asked the question from the desire to feel something normal in this strange place. At a loss for any other familiar distraction, she felt that even Korman's endless prattle would provide some comfort.

Conan appeared to have no interest in providing comfort. He had folded his fingers over her hand and pushed it down to her side, where swung her holstered axe.

At a glance, Conan appeared relaxed, except that he seemed to catch every odd eddy of swirling darkness with his sharp eyes. Every muffled noise drew some subtle response. Gwynn watched as he shifted his weight so slightly when some vague draft of polluted temple air brushed the small hairs of his arm. Seeing this, she became suddenly certain that had anything slipped into visibility, it would have abruptly died with Conan's sword jammed through its gut.

They had passed through the small front entrance of the temple and followed their turbaned guide through several small rooms before entering the cyclopean chamber through which they now walked. Tall metal braziers were pushed against columns that lined either side of the hall. Their ruddy glow crawled up these pillars before fading into a sluggish gloom that floated down like an oppressive substance from the darkened ceiling. Doorways filled with flickering orange light lined one side of this massive chamber, from which disturbing sounds emanated, uttered, it seemed, by creatures both cognizant and purposeful. From the other side of the hall, booming hollow between the dim pillars and ultimately from the blackness beyond, echoes issued, twisted and macabre, a response to the un-nerving screams of unseen beings who had found their desires between the sobbing cries of their victims. A heavy and pungent smoke floated along the ground, source unknown.

"I got it from the librarian," said Korman as he wet his finger and pushed over a page. His singularly absorbed voice sounded small and out of place in this unsettling hall, but oddly, Gwynn found some assurance in it. "He was really helpful and answered all of my questions. Well, most of them. At least until he tried to close early." Another page flipped. "I told him that I couldn't leave on account that I had more research to do. And the fact that you guys hadn't returned for me. So he gave me this book and a guide." Without looking up from his new book, he waved one hand at the turbaned figure that walked in front of them. "You know, they may look and sound funny, but they're actually decent folks."

Finally, the line of pillars ended in a stone wall that dropped from above to surround on three sides a small doorway at its bottom. A rounded stone slab barred their way.

Korman stepped precociously in front of their guide. "Let me try," he demanded. "I just read about this." He cradled the open book with one arm and took a moment to peer into its pages. Then he looked up, focused his attention on the closed door and mumbled some indecipherable phrase while tracing a pattern in the air with his fingertip. Nothing happened.

Their guide laughed scornfully, a coarse rasping sound. He turned to face the door. His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. He made a fist and raised it as if to knock on the stone slab. One finger shot upright. He leveled it at the door and began to chant. Following the movements of the guide's finger, a pattern made of light, green and blue, began to form on the stone surface. His finger stopped and his oddly melodic voice mumbled into silence. The stone rolled to one side, leaving an open doorway.

"Did you hear that?" asked Korman in a loud whisper as their guide strode ahead. "There's some other verbal component to the magic. Other than just speaking the words. It's tonal. Almost like singing."

Korman reached again for the air, but stopped at Conan's command. "Enough sorcery," he ordered as his hand chopped the air in front of Korman. His other hand swung relaxed near the hilt of his sword. Ready.

On the other side of the doorway, the hall became smaller, more characteristic of a passage between rooms than a place of mass gathering. The ceiling dropped to a manageable height. Conan could walk without stooping, but just barely. Instead of separate rooms, the original builders had opted to intermittently widen the corridor allowing for room-like alcoves along its length. On one side of the corridor, every "room" stopped at a blank wall with the occasional protruding sconce and sometimes the rare torch held within.

Walls in the opposing alcoves held broad shutterless windows open to the deepening evening and the outside of Grothma's walls facing the desert hills.

"These gloomy halls have taken us outside the city," observed Conan.

One section of wall held brass masks, hung in a row by the cloth bands normally used to attach the mask to a person's head. Gwynn grabbed one of the masks and tucked it under her arm. Their guide paused, but decided not to protest.

Many of the alcoves were inhabited by humans and those who were human-like. Remnants of daylight mixed with the glowing embers of small braziers which cast a sultry illumination onto the occupants therein.

In one alcove, two bearded men sat facing one another. They leaned over a bowl from which rose a pungent smoke. Using tubes made from reeds, they sipped the air over the slowly burning material, drawing the smoke into their lungs. One man leaned away from the bowl and exhaled out the window. He turned his head and stared passively at the companions through glazed eyes.

In another alcove, a woman lounged upon a pile of cushions with her breasts sprawled luxuriously over her bare chest. One corner of Conan's mouth curved upward in appreciation. She directed an alluring gaze back at the barbarian. Her tongue, narrow and forked at the end, shot from her mouth and vibrated energetically. Conan jerked his head backward with an offended grimace.

"Well, that's unusual," remarked Korman. His gaze lingered. Gwynn whacked the back of his head and they moved on.

Further along the hallway, three serpentines awkwardly chewed on broad leaves. The resulting juice mixed with saliva before dribbling through their pointed teeth and running in rivulets down their chins. Seeing Conan, they hissed in alarm and attempted to rise. Their movements seemed uncoordinated, apparently from the narcotic effects of the leaves. The turbaned guide hissed vehemently at the serpentines whereupon they plopped obediently back to the ground.

Nearby, in an alcove nearly void of light, they saw something that walked on two legs, but seemed more comfortable moving on all four limbs.

They saw others as they continued. Some were awake and sublime with wonder. Some slept.

"These are the dreamers, those whom we pass," explained their guide.

"Oh, is this one of those dream cults?" asked Korman with an affable curiosity. He continued to speak without waiting for a response. "Some accounts claim that these cults like to dream of creatures in the moonlight and that they believe there are beings who live in civilizations on the moon. They actually consider these dreams as part of every-day reality."

The guide hissed an angry response. "I will arrange a visit when next you sleep. Then, maybe, you will realize the reality of our dreams."

Korman nodded, trying to project a patient understanding. "Okay. I look forward to that," he replied in carefully constructed sympathy. He continued to nod politely. The guide delivered another hiss from the back of its throat.

Then the hallway simply stopped and they walked out into the evening.

Small fires wrapped around torch tops, tall bundles of wood and reeds standing at intervals throughout a broad stone terrace. To one side, a covered walk ran alongside the temple back toward the city where a large crack in Grothma's wall served as a city entrance.

In the other direction, the terrace merely dropped off into the desert. A dirt pathway pounded solid from frequent use led to stone stairs that trailed some way up the arid hills to another smaller temple. The pillars in front had already begun to collect the orange light of ritual fires. Night had come.

"That's the same temple we saw in the cliffs last night," commented Korman.

Nearby, two guards stood at attention, posed and perfectly still. They wore their helmets straight and their spears, butted against the ground, rose exactly upright. Only one was human.

"Stop staring, Korman!" Gwynn whispered sternly.

"His ears look funny."

Ever wary, Conan turned and saw serpentines lined on the edge of the roof. Although their heads were hidden in shadow, their eyes caught a curve of light and shone translucent in the dark. Like the guards on the ground, they stood rigidly in formation.

Other figures moved about, sliding through shadows or standing solemn at the bare edges of illumination.

"Greetings newcomers. Welcome to the city of Grothma," said a voice overcharged with politeness. "Our presence is now mutual." A man-like figure sauntered between a pair of tall torches and approached. His turbine tipped with his head, side to side at every step. He held, with a lazy grip, a stemmed goblet wherein a dark liquid sloshed as he moved across the patio.

"He looks just like our guide, except he can't walk straight," Korman whispered to Gwynn.

Tipping the goblet toward his mouth, he swallowed some of the liquid with a greedy gulp. His lips peeled back into a grimace and he growled a grizzly sigh of contentment that spoke more of malice than of satisfaction.

"Ahh, you must be Conan. My acolytes tell me you had quite the time last night in my poor city." He reached to one side and dropped his goblet. A nearby servant caught it before it hit the ground. "You may call me Kroatch."

"Kroatch," Conan repeated. "Your acolytes fought like little children waving sticks."

"Were those whom you encountered last night my acolytes, you would not be alive to speak with me now. But no matter." Kroatch peered critically at Conan. "You're almost as big as they described. Your limbs are as thick as your accent. Yet I have heard much of your agility. For some reason, I expected someone with such a heavy accent to be significantly less agile," he mused. "I wonder why this is."

"Your people took my father." Gwynn stepped into the conversation furious and full of accusation. She thrust forward her newly acquired brass mask. "They wore these! Where is he?"

Kroatch raised his chin as he let his eyes fall on Gwynn as if unduly burdened with the effort. "He was, indeed, our guest for a time, but no longer." He returned his attention to Conan.

"Answer her before I gut you where you stand."

Kroatch seemed unconcerned. "I would like to point out that those who surround us are trained warriors, not the undisciplined rabble you encountered last night. Further, I am a wizard.”

"I've met other wizards like you, full of themselves and drunk with their own sense of self importance. They die like anyone else when a length of Hyrkanian steel slides through their gut."

"I'm a master wizard." Kroatch tilted his turbined head forward for emphasis.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Conan spoke through clenched teeth.

"Oh, oh. You're a wizard," interrupted an excited Korman.

"And what have we here. Another little barbarian?"

"Librarian," corrected Korman. "S'cuse me." He summed his indignation with a leveled stare at Kroatch. "Anyway, I noticed a verbal component when your friend opened a door. You know, the other one of you. Our guide. A tonal element of the incantation seemed to coincide with the somatic component of that door opening spell you guys do..."

Kroatch ignored Korman and refocused on Conan. "You seek information. So do we. Let us trade."

Suddenly, a mewling sound interrupted the relative silence of the plaza and a small black cat slinked into view. Kroatch hissed with irritation and motioned to one of his heretofore immobile guards. The guard flipped his spear into motion and thrust at the feline. However, the cat slipped back into the darkness whence it had come, leaving the guard to jab uselessly at nothing.

"Sneaky little creatures," Kroatch opined.

"My father!" reiterated Gwynn.

"Ah, yes. You see, he was asking about religions."

"I know my father. He would never seek to join your cult." She threw a disdainful look toward the hallway whence they had come. A smoky haze heavy with pungent smells from a variety of smoldering flora drifted sluggishly from the hallway entrance before escaping into a light evening breeze.

"Let me," said Korman with a note of assumed authority. He stepped in front of Conan and Gwynn. "I study comparative religions. I know all the questions to ask."

Conan grabbed a wad of cloth from Korman's shirt and dragged him back. He spoke. "I have no sympathy for those whose heads are thick with lotus. They are shallow. Worthless."

"We are at one with our god. If it takes some medicinal intervention to reveal ourselves to the universe, so be it." Kroatch reached to his side and swiped the air once with his hand. Another stemmed goblet full of dark liquid promptly landed in his palm. He smiled a devilish smile as he pulled his drink from the servant.

"No matter," Kroatch continued. "Her father asked of another religion that is not ours. In Samara, he inquired of Mologomothis."

"Huh?" Conan and Gwynn spoke at the same time.

"I'm embarrassed to say that I know nothing of this Mologa...." Korman stumbled over the word. "Say that again," he requested.

"The sounds we use to represent this abomination are merely approximate. Our terrestrial tongues cannot easily find purchase upon a language so foreign as is uttered by this dark god. I believe it is a name that could be fully understood only in that distant and un-navigable plane from which it comes.

Kroatch raised one finger in explanation. "You see, ours is an earthly religion. Xocchottle is a god of the earth and its moon. A god of all inhabitants." He gestured toward the variety of races that composed his soldiers and attendants. "Ours is a local religion."

"In contrast, Mologomothis is a tentacled horror that comes from an insane and dark dimension not native to our universe.

All but Kroatch remained silent, except that Korman scribbled notes on a blank page near the back of his book. As his ink dwindled, he scooped a handful of ash from a nearby brazier and spat in it before slopping a splash of some foul smelling wine into the mixture. He returned the goblet to a servant. This done, Korman continued to scritch his letters onto the mystery vellum of his newly acquired book.

Kroatch continued. "Normally, we would simply ignore this bizarre religion - let its obscene rites drive away its followers. This religion should sputter and die. But, somehow, it keeps growing."

"They occupy a city a couple of days travel to the north. We call this place Modo-Imalic, but again, this is merely a rough translation of its true name. It is a twisted place, not meant for this world. Recently, it has shown signs of life and activity. Strange sounds and unexplained lights fill the desert night in that direction."

Kroatch took a deep breath and looked into his goblet, assuming a pose of melancholy and regret. "Recently, I sent some of my servants to gather information of this city. Those few who returned now spend their days cowering in small dark corners. Only liberal quantities of wine will loosen their tongues. Even then, speaking of their journey disturbs them greatly."

Kroatch tilted his goblet, draining its contents. He dropped his goblet, flung his hand to one side and clutched at empty air. A nearby servant, finding himself out of place, scrambled to place a newly filled goblet into the hands of his master.

"Some years ago, we lost a senior cleric to this new cult. Like any organization, we occasionally lose members for a variety of reasons. Disaffection and death to name a couple." He aimed an accusing look at Conan who promptly returned a roguish grin. "But this apostate is actively building this cult. He is effectively feeding the city of Modo-Imalic. In time, this cult of Mologomothis could compete with our own legitimate religion. "

"My sources have determined the apostate is working from Samara, but so far, he has eluded us. Through stealth or wealth, he has avoided our gaze. So you can understand our interest when your father began asking of Mologomothis in the back allies of Samara."

Kroatch looked directly at Gwynn. "I have given you what we know. Now tell me. What is your father's interest in Mologomothis? Where is our apostate?"

Gwynn returned a blank stare then spoke. "I don't give a damn about your apostate. And if you don't have my father, we're done here."

Kroatch let his head roll in a self-affirming manner toward Conan. "Who, exactly, is worthless here?" he asked indicating Gwynn. "You come to the table with nothing after we have given all. Well, none can say that we are without heart. You may go. But first, we would like to offer you an opportunity to meet our god."

"Okay. This is my field of expertise." Again, Korman stepped directly in front of Kroatch. He leaned back toward Conan and Gwynn and raised the back of his hand to his mouth. "He probably means some kind of idol or something."

"I mean a real face to face meeting with our illustrious god, Xocchottle..." Kroatch gestured at the hill behind him. "...through our Temple of Transition."

Korman pivoted to face Conan and Gwynn. "We should definitely turn down their offer," he exclaimed with overt sincerity.

"Ya think?" replied Gwynn.

"You two can leave, but I must insist that our young scholar here experience the transition." Kroatch motioned and his guards stepped forward to grab Korman.

"No, no! I don't want to be transitioned. You can't make me. This is just my internship, you know. Ow! Stop that." The guard with pointed ears prodded Korman with the sharp end of his spear. "Please Conan sir, don't let them make me.

"Conan, we can't let him be taken like this," exclaimed Gwynn.

"No?" Conan stood with his arms folded. He rolled his eyes once. "Fine." He yanked free his sword and advanced on the guards.

Kroatch reached forward with a flourish and hummed an arcane melody as he sketched his sigil. He spoke a word of power and the symbol zipped through the air to Conan, thumping into his chest. Conan stopped suddenly as if frozen.

"Gwynn!" ordered Conan.

"Got it." With a single move of strength, Gwynn punched the offending wizard in the face. Kroatch's head snapped back with the force of the blow. He dropped prone, unconscious with blood running from his nose, mouth and one of his eyes.

Released from his un-natural paralysis, Conan regained his balance on his first step.

Korman, meanwhile, had dropped to the ground sitting with legs crossed and refused to move. The pair of guards had each taken an arm and pulled, but appeared unable to move him. Seeing their imminent demise in the rapid approach of Conan and Gwynn, the guards dropped Korman’s arms and lowered their spears.

His long black beard flailing, the human guard charged at Gwynn. Using the bronze mask she had retrieved from the wall, she batted away the spear and brought her axe down on his head, cleaving helm and skull. The haft shuddered to a stop, sticking out from between his eyes.

The second guard leapt into the air, singing its inhuman battle cry, and drove its spear downward. Conan twisted away in mid stride, grabbing the spear as it passed by and yanked down. The guard tried to let go - too late. Conan impaled him to his sword's hilt. With a shrug of his shoulders, Conan tossed the guard to the ground with a fleshy thump.

Normally, in calmer moments of study, focus and equanimity, Korman would lean forward, position his feet underneath his weight and place his hands firmly on the ground in front of him. Then, after a few practice lunges and some huffing sounds, he would push with hands and feet, timing his move perfectly and so stand to his full stature. Somehow, in these circumstances of calamity, he gained his feet in one furious scramble. It was an approximate average of his movements, he would later determine when time had allowed for some perspective. This served as an equivalent of his regular procedure, he would figure. That and his recent travels had put him in top shape.

He stood for a moment, shaking with anticipation in this whirl of chaos. He saw serpentines with their jagged teeth and weapons lined on the rooftop above the hallway entrance. One of them screamed a cry that sounded like a malicious crow. Korman mentally filled in those parts of the cry that he could not hear and assumed they too were malicious.

Movement from areas further back on the roof indicated more Serpentines. Those standing on the roof’s edge spread their wings and glided to the ground.

Korman frantically cast about for something to do. A plan. An egress. He found his focus when he saw his book sprawled upon the patio - his new book from the Grothma library. With one herculean move, he scooped his book from the ground and hugged it close to his chest. Then he looked for a place to run.

"This way," Conan shouted. He dashed toward the covered walk that separated them from the city wall. Gwynn followed, gripping her broad bladed axe as she moved. She looked worried. Turning toward Korman, she made a fast stirring motion with the flat of her hand. Hurry up! Korman charged at her in a dead sprint as her eyes flicked back and forth between himself and the advancing serpentines.

Korman thudded his way past Gwynn. Then Conan pushed him against the wall. He twisted to keep his book from harm and rebounded.

"Keep three paces from our blades, unless you want your belly ripped open," barked Conan in his regular ferocious voice.

Korman stayed near the wall and followed Conan. Gwynn, with her axe, took an outside position and trailed.

I'll be a hero, Korman thought. If I live through this, he amended. I'll write a book!

Her axe was a tool. That's what Conan had told her. Like the pitchfork, plow or shovel. Use it, practice with it. Someday, you will be the best at it. With a grunt, she swung her axe and missed.

Two Serpentines landed on the walk behind her. Two more approached from the side, trying to find purchase on the walk's edge. A roof prevented attacks from above.

She could ignore the pair behind her for a few heartbeats. She was running away from them and the serpentines would take a moment to find their footing. Then they would catch up fast. Korman's run was slow. And his heaving breath reminded her of a pregnant mare walking uphill.

Gwynn swung at the two Serpentines fluttering along side. Not that she intended to hit them. She just wanted some room. They complied with her wishes, dodging backward by a wing-stroke.

Ahead of her, she witnessed Conan violently ending the life of a serpentine.

The two serpentines who had landed behind, finally caught up with her. With a vehement hiss, they launched their attack. Gwynn abruptly stomped both feet to the ground, reversed her direction and swung at her closest opponent. With a muted clang, she hit the long knife and the hand that held it. Knife and taloned fingers exploded into the air. The other attacker dropped back a pace and Gwynn jogged back to Korman's flank.

If you want to hit something hard enough to damage it, you have to push off from something else. Use your momentum or the ground. Conan had said that too. Korman was moving too slow for momentum. That left only the ground.

Gwynn heard two fast impacts of sword upon scaled flesh and two savaged bodies crumpled before Conan.

Gwynn nearly panicked when she realized that the two Serpentines flying along side had been joined by others and a wall of spears was winging its way toward her.

"Swing the flat of your blade to deflect their spears," Conan yelled. He paused to slaughter a luckless serpentine. "Then swing back with the blade's edge."

She would add that to her collected litany of Conan, Gwynn decided. With her feet firm, she swung a wide arc against the tide of spears. Her axe plowed through the row of spears with a fast clacking sound. Their assault disrupted, some serpentines tried to withdraw while others continued their drive forward. Confusion resulted. Gwynn reversed her swing and hit hard. Splinters from wood spears and bits of serpentine showered around her.

They had almost made it to the city wall where the large crack in the stone waited their passage.

An arrow smacked into the wall next to Conan's head. "Damn!" he bellowed. "They have a bow and arrow. Run for it!"

Well that was a new one.

Half dragging Korman by his collar, she ran for her life.

* * * * *

"I'll go myself then," said Gwynn in weary resignation. She looked over the top of their small fire before returning her attention to her damaged vest. "I have to try," she concluded. With tired determination, she worked to re-attach a metal plate that had been dislodged during the fight in Grothma.

They had been lucky. Despite superior numbers, and a bow and arrow, the serpentines had abandoned their chase a short distance into the city. They had realized, Gwynn figured, that it was all too easy to die in the presence of Conan. Still, the trio had decided it prudent to leave the city. So they had retrieved their mounts and left Grothma that evening.

Now they were in the middle of nowhere. Grothma lay over the horizon, some goodly distance as the vulture flies, if not in memory.

"We probably wouldn't find him there," Conan tried to explain. "He asked of the city, but it's a hard journey across the desert to this Modo-Imalic. As likely, he returned home and waits for us in Samara." He paused long enough to frown. "Besides, those who posses any sense will avoid a city dominated by a dark god. We would find only an evil religion and a cult of fanatics gone mad from staring into some abyssal void. Only death waits in such a place."

"And rubies." Korman carefully ran his finger along the text, guiding his eyes through the script. "Yep, rubies. Says right here." His pudgy middle finger bounced twice on a selected sentence.

"What does this book of Xocchottle tell you?" Gwynn leaned toward Korman attempting to glimpse the text.

"It's a bunch of rules, mostly," Korman replied. "Rules concerning vocations, rules that describe a variety of races, rules on how to fight. The rules concerning magic are in back."

"Huh. Rubies," said Conan in a thoughtful voice.

"About the last third of the book," Korman continued. "All magic." He sucked in a deep breath and read aloud from the text, carefully maintaining a complex tone as he spoke in a strange, magical language. A faint but discernable blue light followed his fingertip as he traced a sigil in the air.

Gwynn gasped in surprise. "You made it work. I'm impressed, Korman."

Conan suddenly became tense and focused on Korman. "I have no use for your infernal summons."

"Oh, it's not a summoning spell. This opens doors. Like that wizard's acolyte did back in Grothma." Nonetheless, Korman ceased his incantation and let the sigil fade into the background of night. His enthusiasm, however, remained. "I think I can open doors now," he exclaimed excitedly.

"For this you're proud?" Conan asked incredulously. He turned to Gwynn. "The rubies are mine. All of them. That's my price. You get your father, all coin and valuables are mine."

Gwynn held a disposition of stern appraisal as she leveled her gaze at Conan. She nodded once, then turned away, self conscious that Conan would see her look of exhausted relief.

"I wonder," queried Korman as he studied his book. "If I reversed the spell, would the door shut instead of open?"

Korman remained awake, arms curled around his book, pondering the hypothetical elements of shutting a door. After a time, he gave way to his fatigue and allowed his mind to wander.

Conan and Gwynn had arranged themselves on the other side of the fire, close together, but not touching. He considered his two traveling companions as he gazed abstractly past their bedrolls. On impulse, he wrote a poem.

Gwynn stretches at stars

Both hands looking for embrace

A cold desert night

"Conan snores in the azimuth," he murmured quietly to himself. He started to write the line, but the poem was done. He crossed it out. Korman closed his book and wriggled down into his bedroll, hugging the tome close.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Korman sat up suddenly, awakened by his own scream of terror. Sweating cold in the chill of night, he looked up in horror at the moon. Nearly full, it had an imposing presence as it hung like an eerie lantern in the darkened sky.

Korman dove into his bedroll and buried his head in a desperate attempt to hide from the spectral light above. Pulling his covers close about himself, he lay curled in a ball, shivering with no thought of sleep.

Nearby, Conan watched Korman's predicament. "A pox on these religions," he cursed in a low voice. "Always meddling in the affairs of others, where they have no business." Conan turned away and quickly found sleep.

* * * * *

"Do you think they're from Grothma?" Gwynn lay flat on her stomach, looking over the top of a shallow hill. A group of mounted men were visible from where the three companions hid.

Ever peering at the horizon, Conan had seen dust pluming in the distance. They had moved quickly behind a natural rise of the desert floor and made their horses lie down.

"No. Nobody has bat wings or funny pointed ears," replied Conan. "And they travel in an organized column. They seem to know what they're doing. At least their leader does." He indicated a man with short black hair and a small trimmed beard. Unlike the others, the metal plating on his vest appeared oiled and well kept.

"It looks like somebody stacked piles of the same kind of vest and tunic on a table side by side and everybody took a pair," Gwynn observed.

Conan nodded. "Most of them are new to soldiering. Probably pulled from some gutter in Samara."

"Can't you do what you did in Grothma? You know, ya - yah." Korman slashed the air with a stick.

Conan grabbed Korman's shoulder and forced him to sit. "Keep down!"

Gwynn looked at Conan and shrugged. "Well?"

"Out here we have nothing to defend. And their mounts are faster than ours. They would surround us and coordinate their attack. They would kill us."

Several of the men seemed to be arguing with the leader. Although they were too far distant to be heard, hands and arms waved angry accusations. Some were obviously shouting. The leader stopped to face the dissent. His sharp dictate was apparent and order in the ranks was quickly restored.

Conan and Gwynn waited through a tense moment while the leader peered in their direction. Finally, he moved to the front and led the column generally away from their hiding place.

"We'll wait until we can no longer see their dust," said Conan. "If we can't see them, they can't see us."

* * * * *

Gwynn urged her tired horse to Conan's side. "Is that it? Modo-Imalic, I mean."

"It looks scary," said Korman. He held his book with care, but he hadn't opened it in two days. Desert travel had been hard on him. Dealing with the heat of the day and cold at night had taken every bit of his effort. Unable to focus on his studies, he had become more aware of his surrounding, albeit grudgingly.

"It must be," said Conan. "There's nothing else out here."

Without speaking, all three dismounted and stood, hesitating to move forward as a common unease crept through them. They looked at each other and at the city. Finally, Gwynn took the reins of her mount as if to move forward. "Gotta do this," she said. It took everything she had to take the first step forward. Slowly, hesitantly, the trio entered the outskirts of Modo-Imalic.

This was a city more strange than ever suggested by mad priests of foreign cults or whispered by lunatics in the warrens of old cities by the mid of night. Structures leaned.

Glyphs jagged and deep crawled up the walls of twisted towers. Maybe it was just the moving air vibrating as it passed over these letters that made a sound like a horrified scream in the distance. Or maybe not. Either way, these words spoke.

"Where are the troughs in this city?" Gwynn whipped her head from side to side, searching frantically. "You can't keep livestock without water troughs." Her words ended in a mumble, but her eyes remained wide, stabbing. Looking for - something.

Bizarre shapes formed the landscape. More than one building passed completely through another before stretching upward toward a tilted skyline.

A rivulet of fine sand caught the wind and funneled into the air, wrapping stream-like around one of the taller buildings until the impossible structure forced it to disperse into a gritty fog that floated ominously through the city. The sun became hot and brown.

Conan found himself forced to look past the outer buildings toward the horizon for a better sense of up and down. "This entire city acts as one big evil spell," he observed through a grimace. Somehow, he managed to keep his balance positioned over his feet.

Still, some unpleasant tickle dancing around the edges of awareness seemed to inform their conscious minds that there indeed existed some disturbing reason behind the madness. It whispered at them, an invitation of dread and something entirely different.

"It almost makes you believe what the wizard said about this god coming from another dimension," somebody stated.

"No, our universe would recognize its own dimensions. This comes from somewhere much further away. Somewhere incomparable," replied Korman. He didn't know who he had answered and realized that it may have been himself. He reached toward a book in his saddlebag, but couldn't seem to grasp it.

They moved at a slow, undecided walk, tugging their nervous horses behind them. The wind lessened somewhat, causing the sand to drop to the ground. Even so, a hot breeze pushed sand through the street on a pillow of air no more than ankle deep.

Gwynn squinted. "If you look at it right, it seems like this creepy city is moving across the desert instead of the other way around."

Korman stopped and stared defiantly at one looming structure with silent windows lining each floor. "You can stop looking at me, now," he admonished.

"Quiet!" Conan held one hand high. Then, with several sharp motions, he directed the others to move behind a wall. They hid from the street, peering through crenellations that had, apparently, once been windows before some massive force sheered away the top of the building.

Soon they could see, shambling around a corner, a figure hideously misshaped and macabre. Although it stood upright on two legs, its limbs were formed grotesquely different from one another, causing it to limp profoundly. Its head was shaped, more or less, like a square. As it struggled through the avenue, its large, luscious lips parted. "Eh-eh-eh. Eeeeeh."

Even Conan shuddered at the sound.

"If that was any regular animal, I'd put it down and lop off its head," whispered Gwynn. "It sounds like it's in horrible pain."

"I wouldn't doubt that it arrived with these buildings," whispered Korman. "It arrived and didn't quite fit. Somehow, it must have been jammed into that body. Probably not a comfortable experience."

They could feel the creature's heavy steps as it awkwardly drove each foot into the dirt. Suddenly, it turned into a building and leapt up a set of crooked stairs with an easy agility before slipping naturally through a warped doorway.

Conan stared after the misshaped figure. "We don't want to fight that." He looked at his companions. "Give it some time. Then we will follow."

"We're following that?" Gwynn's voice took a shrill, incredulous note.

"These buildings are silent and empty." He gestured at the surrounding structures. "Anything worth finding will be in there." With a nod, Conan indicated the warped entrance through which the misshaped creature had passed.

Gwynn clenched her teeth and Korman looked sick.

They hid their horses as best they could, tethering them in an ally across the street, and crept up the steps after the deformed monster. This was a small building; only a thin ceiling separated them from the sun driven sky. With nowhere to climb, the stairs dove down, deep into the earth. From a pit-like opening in the middle of an empty room, squared blocks of stone followed an unfamiliar pattern into the damp darkness.

Conan carried several sticks that would serve as torches. Gwynn carried more. Korman carried a book.

"Why are you drawing over those lines?" asked Gwynn.

"It's a grid. The best way to make a map," replied Korman.

"Or you could just remember your path," said Conan in contempt. He struck a spark to a torch and led their way down.

Conan padded expertly down the uneven stairs, following his torch held before him. Gwynn struggled to keep his pace, but her foot slipped from the moist stone. She grabbed the wall and tore a swath of moss from its stony surface in her effort to remain upright. A luckless Korman skidded past her. Only Conan's strong arm prevented him from tumbling past their patch of torchlight.

"Place your foot then put your weight over it," instructed Conan testily. He looked sternly at Gwynn to re-enforce his point.

"Doin' what I can," replied an irritated Gwynn. Hand over hand, she grabbed fistfuls of mossy wall.

They continued gingerly downward. The subterranean atmosphere slowly dried as they descended. A white lichen replaced the moss and ooze that had clung to the walls at higher elevations.

Then the steps stopped. The stairwell spilled into an irregular room shaped by a silent collision of passageways. An array of dark entrances offered themselves to the party.

Korman stopped scribbling in his book long enough to peer at each available option of travel. "The big hallway, right Mr. Conan?"

Conan studied the ground for a moment. He grunted in agreement. "This way is traveled most."

They kept to this larger track as best they could, but the walls to either side drew closer together as they moved. The hallway drifted through a confusion of intersections which forced the trio to make some hard choices. Even Conan's scrutiny couldn't answer all questions. Inevitably they found themselves moving through less traveled tunnels.

One long room twisted in upon itself, stopping only when its walls funneled into a wedge. They were forced to retreat. A short time later, they were again forced to stop when their chosen passage narrowed to an un-navigable end where the walls met to form a strange and complex geometric shape.

The trio felt compelled to stop for a moment. They were drawn to this alien shape, disturbing yet somehow given to a horrible, cloying fascination. All noted that the stone was chiseled with much more precision than seemed possible for any ordinary stonemason.

A sudden noise caused the trio to turn and peer back into the dim passageway. It sounded like the sizzle of meat cooking over a fire, if the meat were made of solid rock. A ball of light that sparked as if it contained a stroke of lightening within, rounded a bend in the passage and shot toward them with frightening speed. No larger than the end of Conan's thumb, it traveled along the wall, burning a small blackened channel into the stone.

Before they could react, the energetic ball of light zipped past the party and disappeared into the alien funnel that ended the hallway.

Korman spoke first. "I don’t think this tunnel actually ends here. We won’t be able to follow, though."

"Agreed. This place is not meant for us," replied Conan. "Let us find what we came for and leave this pit of demons and strange lights."

They found other passages and traveled on.

After a number of seemingly random turns, Korman found himself lagging behind his comrades. With his head bowed into his book, he scribbled at his map and shuffled quickly after them. "Hey you guys, did that last room have three passages coming out of it or - whoa." He nearly ran into Gwynn. Both she and Conan had stopped to peer down a particularly unsettling passageway.

This was not some stuffy underground tunnel. Rather, moving air brought with it a smell that was, somehow, reminiscent of death, horror and wonder all rolled into one. Strange hieroglyphs had been chiseled into the stone, apparently by artisans who had come from far away and saw all things differently. The pictures ran the wall until they disappeared into unlit lengths of the passage. The passage itself dove steeply down.

Korman stared at the tunnel entrance with an appalled look on his face. "Let me guess, we're going down that thing. We find the creepiest passage in the place and that's where we're going. Just like in all the books. The tunnel goes almost straight down and that's where we find the big ugly monster. Great. Just great."

"It's not too steep to travel," said Conan in a monotone voice. "Come." He led the way.

They crept down the path, doing their best to ignore the silent suggestions subtly presented by the hieroglyphs. "The spacing is all wrong," said Korman. “This shouldn’t be.” He tried to look away, but the hieroglyphs surrounded them. Impossible histories whispered their corruption and, as one, they began to run. Desperately, they sought to find the tunnel's end and remove themselves from these pictures and their silent language.

Finally they exited the tunnel and stopped. They stood at the beginning of a large room or maybe a wide hallway. Volumes of darkness surrounded their small puddle of light. They couldn't see the chamber's end in any direction, except for the walls directly behind them that curved away from the entrance.

They remained still for a time, breathing as softly as they could. All felt like they had just disturbed something important, as if powerful minds met in a conference of somber purpose were suddenly aware of insects skittering across the table. The weight of a collected cognizance drove into them, forcing a step backward. Yet, for some unknown reason, those who watched remained just outside the tenuous sphere of light cast from Conan's torch. So they stood, feeling out of place. Uncomfortable. Observed.

It seemed prudent to remain silent and hide themselves however they could. Even so, none considered extinguishing their only source of light. Time slid by, moment by moment, bringing only the murk of black shadows and mingling silence.

Silence, however, is relative and they quickly realized they could hear moving air. It was a hollow noise that sounded like an echo, except the noise did not burst forth before trailing into silence as most echoes do. Instead it persisted.

The air moved. Ahead, a door, portal or rift opened to - somewhere.

"Follow me." Conan thrust forward his torch and carefully moved from the room's entrance. More than once, he stopped and swung his torch into the darkness, attempting to find the source of his unease.

"There," he said during one such stop. "A light ahead of us." Soon all three could see the vague shape of a distant door and the flickering light that shone beyond. They walked now with more confidence and the door grew larger at their approach.

Conan abruptly stopped. Korman would have walked by if Conan had not grabbed his shoulder and thrown him backward to the ground.

Directly ahead, a lip of stone curved around a wide pit that dropped into a black abyss. From some unseen depths, a wind bitter with cold rose blowing continually.

"Gods. What a smell," declared Conan in a harsh whisper. "Like old metal and decay."

Gwynn stared with a horrified expression at the cold well. "It feels like something went wrong," she said.

From somewhere in the distance, a scream punctuated the room. In response, a wind, fell and foul, surged from the pit, bringing with it a cry that mimicked the scream. A horrible parody of pain sounded before fading into a sigh of evil satisfaction.

Suddenly, something was there that hadn't been before. A shape, amorphous and disturbing , slopped its way up the far wall of the pit, moving slug-like toward the top. Although it had no fixed shape, ganglia with eyes cupped at the end covered its body.

It reached the well's rim and moved away into the darkness.

With an effort, the trio held onto their wits, circled the well and approached the door in the distance.

The doorway opened to a passage that ended after only a few paces. Beyond lay a chamber so large that its far end could not be seen. Fire light played off pale stalactites hanging jagged and far above. 

A small field of fires surrounded a mound of boulders that formed a crude platform. It supported only a tall wooden stake with a chain and manacle hanging from its top. A crowd of robed figures clustered about.

"Human," muttered Conan as he peered from their short shadowed hall. "Most of them are human." He continued to stare then amended himself. "At least half are human."

One robed figure moved apart from the others, turned and faced the crowd. A long coarse beard covered his chest and a hood covered most of his face in shadow. Flickering fire reflected red from his unblinking eyes.

He stretched his arms to either side as if he were inviting the entire chamber into some dire embrace. Wide sleeves hung from either wrist. He spoke.

"Bring the sacrifice and inter him to the altar." His powerful voice boomed into echoes that circled the chamber.

Two swarthy figures dragged a man from the crowd. Flecks of mucous spattered from his mouth as he frantically twisted against the relentless grip of his captors.

"No, no! It was just a job. You gotta let me go. You can't do this. I was just doin' a job." He sobbed piteously to the silent crowd of worshipers.

The swarthy figures hauled the squirming sacrifice up the pile of boulders and chained him to the stake. He tugged weakly against the manacle, but his strength was spent. The chain held his arm high as he looked with horror and resignation toward the furthest end of the chamber. The chamber’s end appeared to hold only gloom, but all knew, something waited and crept, crawled or slithered amongst the stalagmites.

The robed orator looked in the same direction and called out to the swirling darkness. "Take our offering, oh mighty Mologomothis. Consume this soul. Add his essence to your own growing power so that, one day, your kingdom will cover this world in a tidal-wave of wrath. All shall kneel before you and we, your disciples, will rule by your side." The priest's bellow thundered into silence. He stood unmoving with arms outstretched in a posture of command.

Suddenly, all sensed a presence startling in its scope, a witness to realms unseen and unhindered by local geometries. Far above, near the roof of the cavern, some form or portion of a god soared snakelike, crunching through stalactites and scattering bits of stone. Then it fell. Its full length landed with a thud at the foot of the sacrifice.

"It's like a creature from the sea," whispered Gwynn in awe. "Except huge and awful."

"Betcha it's a cephalopod," Korman commented. His eyes flicked between the dark ritual and back to his book as he sketched an image to parchment. "Spelled with a C, right?"

The tentacle lay still for a moment. Then it lifted and with surprising speed, wrapped twice around the terrified sacrifice, pinning him tightly to the wood pole to which he was bound. The tip of the tentacle, pink and pliant, hovered in front of the man. Holding itself rigid, it rocked back and forth, carefully prodding the victim's torso. Finally, the tentacle seemed to find an acceptable purchase. With disquieting deliberateness, it pushed itself in. The sacrifice lifted his head and started to scream.

The tentacle slid without stopping into the man's body. Scales flowed like an eerie river past hanging skin, pushing ever deeper into soft flesh. The body should have burst many times over, yet no portion of tentacle ruptured out the other side. His mouth locked wide, the man took no breath. He screamed without pause and kept screaming.

Arms held high, the priest faced this grizzly spectacle, leading the crowd in a chant, evil and monotone. Robed figures danced and shouted. Some fell to their knees with arms outstretched, calling to their dark god as it fed. None lost the rhythm of the chant. Small fires flickered red. Still the sacrifice screamed.

Gwynn pressed herself against the tunnel wall. Korman did everything he could to hide behind Gwynn.

Even Conan appeared ashen. "Crom may be the god of a dreary hall, but he does not ask this of his followers." His voice sounded uncharacteristically subdued. He looked on for a few moments more before speaking again. "He's dead."

Gwynn peered around the corner, all the while trying to worm her way deeper into the shadowed rock wall. "He's still screaming. How can he be dead?"

"Look at his eyes. They hold no light. It is not he who now screams."

The worshipers left the chant, casting aside the nightmarish melody provided by their priest. Instead, they yelled, becoming one with the wrath of their dark god. Arms pumped into the air and feet stomped. They danced with rage around their fires that burned small yet intense.

Finally, the tentacle relaxed. It detumesced, becoming limp as it withdrew from the once warm body. The shouting dwindled, losing momentum to a long communal sigh before lapsing into silence. The tentacle withdrew back into darkness, dragging along the floor spent and tired.

Still shackled, the sacrifice hung by one arm. No blood, bile or humour spilled from the hole in the man's center. Rather, he dangled like a once bloated wine skin that had released its volume of trapped air.

Slowly, the worshipers quit the area. They shuffled off to other areas of the great chamber and through openings to other halls. Some just dropped and lay next to a fire.

"That's where the rubies will be." Conan pointed at the priest who now walked across an expanse of floor toward a built opening in the cavern's wall.

"My father...?"

Conan put his hand on Gwynn's shoulder. "We will find him. Or information about him. This priest will be alone with his bolts of silk and piles of coin. We'll make him sing." He stared grimly past his clenched fist.

"Won't we be seen?" asked Gwynn. She gave a concerned look at their path to the priest's chamber. "The cavern offers little cover. We'll have to walk in the open."

"Wait here." Conan pulled a dagger from his belt and disappeared into the shadows. Shortly, he returned holding a bundle of cloth. He dropped the bundle which fell apart into three hooded robes.

"Mine has a hole in it," Korman complained. "...something wet and sticky around the hole."

"If they look close, we will still be discovered," warned Conan. He turned to Korman. "You watch every step you take. If you make noise and arouse these mad worshipers, I'll not save your fat hide."

"Yes sir, Conan." Korman nodded, his face the color of bleached ash.

They kept near the chamber's wall, picking their way through the loose stone and debris that cluttered the cavern's edge. All three did their best to mimic the slow somber waddle of a hooded cultist, all the while creeping silently through a litter of gravel. Travel proved tedious and time plodded by.

At last, the priest's passage appeared before them. Brick made of gray limestone, cut with uncanny precision, formed a granite hallway leading from the great chamber. After a few steps, the passage divided. They turned left. "More light this way," explained Conan.

After only a few paces, the hallway turned right; the adjacent wall held lamplight from a yet unseen room around the corner. Sword and axe were drawn and they padded toward the turn, ready for a fight. So focused were they that an alcove in a darker portion of the hall nearly slid past unnoticed.

While his two companions paced by, Korman stopped to peer through a grid of bars that stood between the alcove and the hallway. A pair of eyes peered back.

"Uh, hullo - ." Korman's voice trailed.

Conan and Gwynn became instantly interested. "Show yourself," Conan called into the shadows.

"You gunna chain me up to that stake again?" An aged voice warbled from the dark.

"Father?"

"That you dear?" The voice paused. "What in Set's name are you doing down here?"

"You're alive!" Gwynn inhaled a stuttered breath. "Watch your language, father," she berated gently. She brought a torch to the cage door.

Inside the gated alcove sat a man hugging his knees with his back pressed against the wall. His hair, once black, now held mostly colors of gray and white. Although age had touched him, he appeared not yet elderly. Once great muscles had shrunk to sinew. Still, his limbs held some memory of their old strength.

He pushed one hand against the ground and hopped to his feet. Both his movement and his bearing communicated a stately grace, despite his attire of dangling rags.

Blinking moisture from her eyes, Gwynn recovered her focus. "Stand back." She fit her axe's haft between door and bars, placed her feet in a broad stance and heaved. Nothing happened.

Conan gave a passing glance to Gwynn's efforts before facing the old man through the bars. "Where are the rubies?"

"Well now, you're a big one, ain't ya. What snow covered tundra did my daughter drag you from?"

Conan said nothing, but held the man with a deep gaze.

"Right. Rubies. Probably a few with that bearded priest. He stalked past here just recently. He went that way. Around the corner." He gestured toward the lit wall. "He might not want to part with them, though. You might need to kill him. Just a suggestion," he called to a quickly departing Conan.

Gwynn pressed her foot against the cage and tugged mightily against her axe. Again, nothing.

"This here is a well built set of bars, my dear. We might need a more subtle approach to open them. A key, maybe? Ahh. There's a sound I've been waiting for."

Floating toward them from around the corner, they heard a voice. "Hey, you're not supposed to be here. What are you doing? Stay back. Stay back! Aaaaaayeee." A dying gurgle followed.

"Sounds like your barbarian friend just met the head priest of Mologomothis."

A frustrated Gwynn ignored the fateful exchange. "I don't have a key, father. And I've never fiddled with a lock." She pulled her axe from the bars and began hammering at the lock with the blunt top of her axe.

"Actually, I may have a solution right here." Korman lifted his book by the spine and let it fall open in one hand. With his other hand, he pushed back pages until he found the needed passage near the back. He pointed at the lock and hummed a couple of experimental notes. "Rehh - meee." He coughed once. "I need to get the verbal component just right," he explained.

Then a resonant sound burst from his throat. Korman drew a glowing sigil in the air. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it forward. "Nok!" he shouted, finishing his incantation. The sigil impacted the lock. The door banged against its hinges and the lock burst.

"You have my thanks, son. That's quite a trick you have there." Gwynn's father tottered from his cell and walked past an elated Korman.

Gwynn shouted a quick cry of joy and wrapped her father in a happy embrace. "Oh father, you stink."

He nodded toward his former cell. "I didn't have so much as a bucket, much less a proper cistern."

Conan strode around the corner wearing several odd pieces of jewelry, rings, necklaces and a brass armband. Two new daggers and a couple of coin bags hung from his belt. In one hand he held an elegant candelabra. He lifted the candelabra to his front and gave it a considering look. Then, with a negligent toss, he sent it clattering down the hall behind him.

"Whatever compelled you to come down here and save my brown wrinkled butt, you have my thanks. Name's Arak."

Conan looked at Arak standing calm and self-possessed with squared shoulders. He nodded.

"I'm called Conan," he replied. "You've done time as a soldier."

"That I have. I was younger, though. Much younger."

Conan pulled a dagger from his belt and handed it to Arak. "You have our flank."

"How did you know...?" asked Gwynn.

"That's how a soldier stands when he addresses his officer," explained Conan. "You could learn from him."

Arak flipped his knife into the air and caught it by the handle."Did you bring my sword, dear?"

"I broke it over some guy's head. It was a piece of shit, dad."

"Well, it did its job back in the day."

"She hit a helmet with the flat of the blade," said Conan in an opinionated voice.

"Oh. I Think I see the problem, dear. Yer supposed to stick 'em with the pointy end." He jabbed the air with his dagger a few times to demonstrate.

Gwynn aimed a hard look at the pair. "If you're done making fun, we should go."

Conan nodded. "Leave the cultist robes behind. Speed will be a better ally than stealth, now. Gwynn and I will lead."

"I got your back," said Arak.

"I opened a door," exclaimed Korman.

Conan did little to suppress a look of utter disdain. "You stay in the middle."

Moving as quickly as they dared, they rounded the corner and headed toward the great sacrificial chamber - and stopped. Robe draped cultists crowded the length of the hall and spilled into the chamber beyond.

A sea of dower stares set upon grim, bearded faces spoke of murder. Knives slipped from folds of cloth. Nobody moved. The cultists seemed to savor the moment, sharing in a mutual sneer. Their victims were trapped in a back hallway, housed deep within the depths of their underground temple. This moment was theirs.

Were he alone, Conan would already have crashed through the front line, hacking down these frowning cultists, churning through their ranks as he cursed their god and their foolish cult. Crumpled bodies, torn and dying would, even now, cover the ground. Walls and floor would be slick from the blood of reeling enemies.

This was a fight he might win. And he might not.

Gwynn had trained hard. He had pushed her hard. She had learned well how to swing an axe and this hall was only so wide. The cultists would be unable to pass the two fighters. They would not be outflanked. His chances were better, Conan surmised, if Gwynn fought beside him.

"Only two at a time can approach," said Conan. His voice was measured and cold. "So long as we keep our shoulders together, we should rid the world of some fanatics this day." He risked a momentary glance at the woman standing beside him. "Nervous?" he asked. His eyes had already returned their focus forward.

"Not even a little." Gwynn flipped forward her axe one full circle and squared her shoulders. She was ready.

Then, from the far ranks of the crowd, a voice called out, "Death to the unbelievers!"

Those in front hesitated. A look of fear flickered across nearby faces, replacing briefly their self infatuated sneer. Before them stood a stone-faced barbarian with a merciless stare and a well muscled woman expertly holding an axe of war. Their own deaths dwelt here, they realized. But the pressures of the crowd drove them forward, so they raised their knives and charged.

They ran at Conan and Gwynn, screaming their dark rage. Spittle splattered from their mouths and their eyes were wide with fanaticism. A tornado of limbs and daggers crashed like a wave into the two warriors. But Conan's stance was wide and his legs heavy with sculpted muscle. He pushed back.

With a single move, Conan parried a dagger's thrust and jammed his sword through the mouth of a cultist. Bits of brain and bone exploded from the back of the head. For the briefest moment, the corpse dangled from his sword. "Give my greetings to your god," Conan growled at the lifeless face. He kicked the body into the maelstrom of fanatics where it was trampled in a confusion of feet and robes.

Another cultist shouting syllables in a strange language seemed unaware of his peril. He leapt at Conan with his dagger raised. Using one hand, Conan grabbed the cultist's wrist, forcing him to kneel. With two savage blows, Conan hacked off his head. Both pieces of cultist dropped to the floor.

One cultist tried to slip past Conan and stab him from behind, but Gwynn was there. Belting out a yell of exertion, her axe swung upward, catching her opponent's chin, splitting beard, face and skull. The blade cleaved through and a circle of blood spun into the air. Feet flew up as the body hurtled back into the waiting mob.

Ducking the flying carcass, a cultist sprang forward holding, with both hands, a sword with a long blade and a full grip. Hollering his hatred, he brought down his weapon with a broad swing. In a deceptively simple move, Gwynn lifted her axe so that the sword bounced off its top. Her axe raised high, she heaved against its handle. Her heavy axe hissed through the air. The cultist's eyes shown an instant of fear, then abruptly gazed blank as Gwynn's axe crunched through his head. She yanked the axe free, pulling upward a splatter of blood, brains and wet bone.

"Just like chopping wood," she commented dryly.

So ferocious was their combined assault that the whole force of cultists stumbled backward.

In a desperate attempt to reverse the momentum of the fight, somebody shouted, "Mologomothis is god!"

"A God of weak men," Conan responded. This, however, only infuriated the cultist into foolhardy bravery. Again they attacked, running and thrusting daggers.

Conan and Gwynn braced their feet against the ground. Their blades whipped forward as they worked the wall of frenzied knives, flinging blood and death. Slowly they marched forward, walking over hewn bodies, moving with a steady step inexorably toward the great chamber of Mologomothis.

Not every cultist brought violently to the ground had yet found death. They lay on cold stone and clutched horrible wounds, moaning and crying pitifully.

"I have yer flank," said Arak in a voice without tone. He squatted by one of the fallen and cradled the cultist's head in the crook of his arm. In a single expert move, Arak slid his knife upward through the cultist's throat and into his brain. The robed figure twitched once and never moved again.

Arak moved to the next cultist, mortally wounded on the hallway floor, and slaughtered the man.

His next victim so wished to leave his agony that he raised his head, exposing his throat. "I'll make it quick, son," murmured Arak. He quickly and quietly killed the man.

Whether from the gruesome fighting, or from the utilitarian nature of Arak's butchery, Korman felt sick. He vomited several times.

Then the fighting stopped. In a sudden mass egress, the cultists fled, leaving Conan and Gwynn standing and breathing hard from the fight. Both wore their share of wounds, but none seemed dangerous.

Gwynn examined her forearms. "Not much worse than a day picking brambleberries," she panted. She managed a full breath and used it to yell at the back of the fleeing mob, "that'll teach you to mess with my old man!"

Conan did not share her bravado. Instead, he stepped into the great chamber, cautious and alert. He suddenly stopped. "They did not flee from us," he said on a tense voice. His companions heard his fear. "Run!"

Gwynn grabbed Korman by the shoulder and shoved him toward her father. "Get him out of here. We will follow." She whipped her head back to see a shape moving with tremendous speed, grinding its way across the cavern ceiling. A rain of jagged pebbles sprayed across the chamber.

Korman pounded his way toward the cavern's exit. Arak jogged lightly along side. "We'll want to move a little faster than this, son," said Arak in a concerned voice.

Conan looked after the duo and tensed, ready to run. "This is no group of soft cultists. Likely, it will kill us. We should leave now," he said to Gwynn.

"You could easily outpace Korman and my father. Do so if you will. I will not give to cowardice," snapped Gwynn.

Conan scowled at her, but he remained at her side, nonetheless.

Fast as he was, Conan could not entirely avoid the tentacle's strike. The impact threw him spinning to the ground as it flashed by and smashed into the cavern floor, fracturing stone. Instantly, the tentacle coiled around Conan's middle and lifted him from the ground, crushing the air from his lungs.

Even as his life was squeezed from him, Conan hammered his sword against the swirl of green and black scales that covered the tentacle. No longer flaccid and spent from the human sacrifice, the pink tip, its virility restored, rose level to Conan, firm and ready to penetrate.

Gwynn hollered in defiance at the top of a mighty leap. Gripping her axe with both hands, she powered a blow into the tentacle's length. Her wide blade smacked into the top of a cobblestone shaped scale, cracking it.

A deafening screech, wretched and malevolent, ripped through the cavern. The tentacle dropped Conan and struck at Gwynn, slamming into her with a heavy thud. Her axe flipped up into the air as she was batted away. Now the tentacle followed Gwynn.

Conan lay on the ground for a moment watching spots swim through his sight. He shook his head in an effort to clear his vision and pushed himself up to a sitting position.

"Here. This seems to be the tool for this fight." Arak stood next to Conan holding Gwynn's axe. He dropped it to the floor, turned and scampered after Gwynn.

Conan grabbed the axe and hopped to his feet. In the distance, Korman was chugging his way through his own stylized version of a sprint. He had nearly made his way to the short passage through which they had first arrived at the great chamber. Arak pattered his way toward his daughter. The tentacle had pummeled Gwynn into unconsciousness and was now returning to Conan - fast.

Conan knew that, in less than a heartbeat, the dark god's tentacle would catch him and kill him - unless he timed his next move just right. He sprang to one side and swung the axe down upon the empty space he had just vacated. His muscles bunched with desperate exertion - his grip strained on the haft as he brought down the wide blade.

The tentacle met Conan's blow.

Most of the tentacle was well protected by hard scales, but its tender pink end had no such armor. With a wild yell, Conan severed the tentacle's tip in a single sickening slice. A scream made of horrors shivered earth and air.

The axe's swing stopped in a spray of sparks as it impacted the stone floor, and for a brief flicker of time, Conan could see into the open wound that he had carved.

No blooded flesh gave form to this tentacle. Instead, the wound was dark and empty. A wind tussled Conan's black hair as cavern air rushed into the abyssal hole cut into the dark god's flesh. He could hear a sound like wind slurping through a thick fluid and as Conan peered deeper into the wound, he could see, in the distance, angry red suns adrift in an alien void. And somewhere between heartbeats, from within this desolate blackness, something vast and powerful looked back. A numbing gaze cast forth from some dread presence half a universe away caught Conan's senses and pulled him in.

Conan drifted, he knew not how long, surrounded by an intense cold. He traveled further into the alien universe - drawn by the presence, still invisible at this distance. Even so, it pulled with an indomitable force.

He passed near an old red star, its fuel nearly spent, floating through the void. Somehow, it was alive - aware. Conan could feel waves of hatred, slowly stewed over untold eons, crash over him. The old star sizzled and spat as it clutched at Conan, but the presence had other plans. It pulled him from the star, tugging him ever deeper into the universe - a universe with an architecture that was unraveling.

Others too dwelt here. Dormant for countless millennia, they changed direction and began to move. Screaming across the void, they hurtled toward him. He had been noticed. Conan felt fear.

Rubies, he thought. He had to leave the cavern where he had found them. He could not remain in this universe if he were to properly steal his loot.

He focused on this sole principle and, with a supreme effort of will, he wrenched himself from the presence, immense as it was, and re-entered the great chamber.

There he was, still staring into the severed tentacle. Somehow he knew that no time had passed, although he had just flirted with some kind of awful eternity.

The truncated tentacle recoiled back into the chamber's darkness, disappearing from sight. Somewhere, something heavy thumped into the cavern wall, followed by a series of thuds that shook the entire chamber. The rattling scream that had begun in a high pitched shrill of cold pain, gained the granular sound of malice. Stalactites throughout the cave began to shiver and fall.

And within the darkness of those untraveled areas of the great chamber, something big began to move. Conan ran.

Ahead, in the dusty distance, Arak had pulled Gwynn's arm over his shoulder. Gwynn nodded groggily as her father propelled her toward the cavern's egress.

Korman had made the exit and stopped. He pushed one hand against the wall in an exhausted lean as his heaving lungs lifted and lowered his rotund torso.

Using his free arm, Arak waved frantically at Korman, motioning him out of the great chamber. Korman nodded in compliance and shuffled into the short tunnel disappearing from sight.

Stalactites dropped like spears, smashing into the ground. Conan ran through a churning storm of dust and small rocks. Boulders exploded around him. A slab of cavern ceiling dropped from above. Conan responded instantly. Relying on reflexes taught as a drawn bow, he dove to one side. Ignoring the shrapnel that peppered one side of his body with small bleeding wounds, he sprinted and quickly overtook Arak as he tugged his daughter toward the chamber's exit. Korman was now visible in the hallway, moving in some slow pantomime of a sprint, although one foot always remained on the ground.

Conan patted the side of Gwynn's face. "C'mon girl. We need you awake."

"Do that again and I'll bust that northern nose of yours," she mumbled. Conan grinned at her with a face smeared blood and powdered stone. Gwynn shook some of the fog from her eyes, pushed away from her father and tramped her way toward Korman, finally leaving the great cavern.

Although the noise of cracking stone receded as they traveled from the cavern, sudden fits of vibration threatened the entire complex of caves and tunnels. One such jolt knocked Korman to the ground. He landed near the bottomless well that was filled with naught but foul wind. He fumbled for his book as he attempted to stand.

"It would be easier if you let it stay dropped." Arak nodded toward the book and Conan grunted in agreement.

Korman shook his head resolutely and, between breaths, managed to gasp, "ne-ver."

Arak shrugged and looked at the well. "God-awful thing, that."

Inevitably, Korman fell behind and, indeed, had disappeared from sight when his companions careened into an intersection with tunnels that spoked out in all directions.

"Damn. Which way?" asked Conan. Blood and dirt slid down his face with beads of sweat. He looked for answers from Gwynn, then Arak and finally Korman as he rounded a bend in the passage and entered the room. "Which way?" Conan demanded.

Korman stopped in the room's middle, clutching his book and breathing heavily. He nodded and raised one hand in a plea for patience while his breath slowed. Tremors shook the room, stopped, and started again. Three sets of eyes gazed intently at Korman. The tremors again subsided.

Finally, Korman opened his book. "This room is on map 5-A. You see, this place was too big to fit on one page, so I had to..." The surrounding faces wrinkled in impatient anger. "Right." Korman pointed toward one indistinguishable tunnel. "There. Hey, are you guys going to leave me behind again?"

They made the bottom of the stairs with Korman struggling to keep pace. Gwynn provided inspiration with little statements such as, "is that a big, icky tentacle sliding up the stairs behind us? You better hurry, Korman."

After what seemed an eternity, they reached the small room at the top of the stairs and burst into the evening light of Modo-Imalic.

Immediately, their feet were thrown crooked against the ground from a violent tremor pitched from below. Pieces of sculpted stone fell from crooked structures and kicked up plumes as they impacted on soft sand.

They sprinted, despite the shaking streets and, in a flurry of panicked hands, un-tethered their horses before leading them from the ally.

Starting from the bottom floor of a building nearby, small clouds of debris exploded from windows one level at a time up its tilted spiral until a tentacle tore through its top. A few streets distant, another tentacle burst from the ground and shot skyward. It stood erect for a moment, shedding dirt and sand. Then, with terrifying speed, it wrapped around a tall building, ripped it from its foundation and dashed it to the desert floor.

The ground heaved as more tentacles punched up from below.

"That holy hoar of a godling is coming up," shouted Conan over the noise of a breaking city. He bullied his panicked horse into submission and mounted.

"Yep, yep. Time to leave." Arak dodged a flying hoof and hopped up behind Gwynn. Three fully loaded horses charged down the streets of Modo-Imalic.

Suddenly, an avalanche of destroyed building slammed into the street in front of them, causing a cloud of pulverized masonry to burst into the air. Conan pulled hard on his horse and skidded into a retreat.

The trio of horses pounded toward the city's suburbs beneath a sky cluttered with falling bits of city. Flailing tentacles continued to push up through the ground. One by one, they rose high above the twisted architecture before crashing down to earth and thrashing blindly through the streets.

A large knot of tentacle whistled through the air toward the riders. It unfurled whip-like and smacked through a standing wall. Shards sprayed into horse and rider.

"Move you blasted mule!" The eyes of Conan's horse rolled in terror, but it could not deny his brutal strength. Conan mercilessly drove the horse forward.

"They's built for the field, not for this sort of runnin' around," Arak called out from his seat behind Gwynn. Conan ignored his explanation.

Korman made no attempt to steer his mount, rather directing all his valiant efforts to keeping his seat amidst of cyclone of changing motion. Luckily, the sturdy plow-horse was sensible and knew enough to follow the other mounts. So when a tentacle slid across the street blocking their path, Korman's mount followed Conan's vitriolic cursing and leapt with the others. For one frightening moment, Korman floated above his seat. Then, all hooves found the ground on the other side. Korman scrambled for handholds, dizzy - the landing had shoved the breath from his lungs - and the horse resumed its plodding gallop.

Through much of their stay in Modo-Imalic, they had become accustomed to some noises. Pitched little sounds like the sharp crack of shattering stone had become routine and lifted earth falling in sheets that pattered all around them was now a common experience. They had even become used to the lower tones of large objects colliding with the terrain and surrounding buildings. But nothing had prepared them for the massive muted explosion that now unfolded behind.

The city's center punched sharply upward and paused. The earth groaned a long low complaint that reverberated through earth and sky. Great stone foundations broke away from their structures and both tumbled from the sudden bulge in a sea of sliding soil. Then, while the city still collapsed, the ground exploded.

Huge volumes of earth erupted far above the city. Whole buildings spun through long arcs, landing haphazardly upon the desert floor, smashing into rubble and clouds of pulverized masonry. A subsonic wave of force hit, vibrating every grain of sand. All three horses defecated simultaneously and Korman cried out in shame.

Again, all became silent save for the patter and clunk of raining debris. Behind them, a miasma of grit, colored rust red from the sunset, swirled slowly around an impossibly large shape made formless by a confusion of falling debris. Yet even before the dirt dropped from the air, all felt a presence, baleful and vast. Every thought, whim or desire seemed to fall under the indomitable will of the dark god. Even Conan lost focus on their haphazard flight. He twisted in his saddle, obeying the overwhelming compulsion to witness the visage that slowly emerged from the drifting sand.

Gwynn released the reigns, allowing her arms to flop to her sides. Father and daughter stared at the monster, their eyes round with astonishment. Their mouths fell slack.

The horses too lost their will. They dropped to a cantor, then a walk and wandered aimlessly.

All shivered in fear as a wind made of despair washed the landscape.

Finally, the dust and debris fell, leaving only Mologomothis, silhouetted black against an evening sky of purple and orange. Hideous shades of darkened green writhed continuously along the curves of the dark god's bell shaped body. Some ropy substances slid across its flesh, twisting in upon themselves in a nauseating motion.

In the body's center sat a single large orb, an eye shining white with a ghastly light. Its surface was tacky, translucent giving the appearance that the god looked both outward at its surroundings and inward, contemplating its own universe in some form of malevolent introspection. No pupil adorned the eye. Rather, streaks of red energy traveled intermittently along its circumferences. And through this eye, surrounded by undulating flesh, Mologomothis became suddenly very aware of those who had invaded its abode.

The dark god screamed an awful sound that shook Conan from his torpor. All tentacles left their wanton thrashing and froze. Then they moved again. The air over Modo-Imalic became instantly filled with scaled tentacles. They hurtled toward Conan and his companions, crashing through building tops, bearing death as they came.

"Move." Conan walloped his horse’s flank and the three mounts lunged forward. He looked back as they fled. "We won't escape those."

In mere heartbeats, they be would be hit, pummeled into the ground leaving little more than a smear of bloody flesh cratered into the desert floor. Conan knew they could not escape. His bag of rubies would stay in Modo-Imalic. These moments would be his last, racing across this un-earthly ruin with an eerie sunset glowing on their backs.

Conan ripped his sword from his belt. Though he would die today, he would carve his name in the unholy flesh of the god who killed him.

Korman took the reins in both hands and leaned back, pulling his horse to a stop.

“You guys can go.” Although his voice shook, a thread of resolution ran through his words. He had made his mind and not even Conan could stop him.

“Korman, what-?” Gwynn cried out.

“Best we keep going, dear.”

“Leave him.” Conan didn’t bother to slow down.

Pulling his book from the saddlebag, Korman dropped from the back of his terrified horse. The horse bawled in fear and ran. Korman too ran – toward Mologomothis. His squat legs pumping, he plunged over a foundation that had, somehow, avoided being ripped from the ground. He tried not to sob, unsuccessfully. Tears rolled down his chubby cheeks.

As he ran, Korman’s plump fingers pawed frantically through pages. Finally, he found what he was looking for. He stopped and planted both his feet solidly on the ground, standing just as Conan had instructed Gwynn so many times. With one hand, he held the open book before him. With the other, he wiped the tears from his eyes so he could read the words.

Korman stood facing the dark god and its terrible eye, even as its tentacles towered above racing to strike. He felt stunned by the madness of it all. Involuntarily, he flung up his free arm in defense and cowered.

But there before him his book lay open. The words stood still, unaffected by time, singing their continuous single note, complex and sublime. Here was a matter abstract. Perfect.

The look of terror fell from his face as his own universe opened. His arm dropped and his hand carefully brushed the page before rising again, holding ready at shoulder height. He studied the script with a face still wet with tears, relaxed and solemn. Now was his turn to take the offensive.

His voice did not waver as he drew, pale blue, his sigil in the air. He reached forward, taking hold of the sigil that shimmered before him. He spoke the final words of power and threw the sigil at Mologomothis,

The glyph tracked forward, at first, unsteady and slow, uncertain of its path. It shook as it flew, tumbled and threatened to fall apart.

After a heart stopping moment, the sigil seemed to find its way. It accelerated quickly, hurtling itself directly at the eye of Mologomothis.

Suddenly, high above the destroyed city, the sigil smacked into something. It struck, scattering over an invisible wall with an explosion of blue-green glitter.

Every tentacle halted abruptly as they slammed into the barely visible wall. An infernal scream ripped through the atmosphere, speaking of hatred and pain.

Korman stood and faced his adversary. “S’cuse me,” he said with a furious nod toward the frustrated god. Using both hands, he snapped shut the book, turned and ran. Behind him, an enraged dark god turned its tentacles into a writhing maelstrom, battering the barrier with a hellish wrath.

Step after triumphant step, Korman threw forward his feet. With one hand, he held his book by its length, tilting it snugly into his fleshy forearm. The motion of his chin matched the rhythm of his girth, quivering violently with every footfall. His front tossed up with each heroic stride.

“Aaaaaa – uh – uh – uh – aaaaa.”

Then two lathered plow-horses were upon him, snorting and tearing through the stone littered turf. They pounded past the sprinting Korman, wheeled about in a cloud of hooves and dust and charged him from behind.

Conan’s muscled arm dropped down catching Korman’s free wrist. He tried to haul Korman to the back of his mount, but could not lift him. Korman dangled, his feet dragging a furrow into the ground.

“Crom! You weigh something.”

Gwynn steered her mount to Korman’s other side. Leaning over her horse’s neck, she hooked her hand under his armpit. With a combined effort, they hoisted the portly scholar behind Conan where he plopped like a sack of grain on the horse’s rump. The horse whinnied a shrill complaint, but obediently bore the weight.

Conan held the reins with one hand and used his other hand to hold Korman in place. He leaned back and looked down the length of his arm. “How long until that spell of yours gives out?”

Korman, stretched out on the horse’s back, awkwardly tried to look up at Conan, but failed. He allowed his head to drop back so that he stared at his book which he held fervently with both hands. “About now,” he replied.

A boulder swished by the mounted companions, landing some distance away.

“The dark god needs to improve his aim,” chortled Arak.

They stopped, at last, when the city was well out of sight. A large flat stone that angled out of the earth would provide some sparse shelter during the night.

Korman let himself drop to the ground. He pushed himself to his feet and faced his companions with an accusing look. “I’ve had about enough of dark gods and their damn religions!” With both arms clasped around his book, he stalked to the other side of the flat stone, isolating himself.

“Sounds like something you might say,” commented Gwynn.

Conan inhaled, held it, then nodded once. “Many times,” he admitted.

* * * * *

“…so I figured a door had to be in front of me somewhere. How else would a dark god manifest in our universe, right?” Korman looked for agreement in the faces of his companions, but found only polite attention.

They had left Modo-Imalic three days prior, enough time for the intensity and fear of previous days to drift, somewhat, into the past. Slowly, they had let go of their nervous ticks: the quick glance over their shoulder, the reflexive grab at their weapons and the like. As they had discovered a more relaxed existence, they had started to talk again.

Korman continued. “So I cast a spell that shuts doors. I threw it straight at Mologomothis. I think I got lucky, though,” he concluded. He let his story pass into the night.

Conan tossed a handful of twigs, pulled from a desiccated desert plant, onto their small fire. They watched as flames grabbed the old vegetation and crackled through the dead leaves.

“How did you arrive in that horrible place, father? Down in the basement of Modo-Imalic.”

Arak looked at his daughter with a resigned expression. “I s’pose, since you came all this way to fetch me, I owe some explanation.” He nodded to himself. “S’pose I do.”

“It was Dabir himself who first approached me. I was just outside the city.” He allowed a stray look to wander past Gwynn. “Ahh, okay, I was just inside the city hookin’ up a handle with a couple other farmers. A merchant was buying. No-one in his right mind would turn down a free drink, right?”

“Best to make sure it’s really free before you drink,” suggested Conan.

Gwynn fixed her father with a dry look. “Go on, father.”

Arak took the implied rebuke, sighed and continued. “Somebody must have fingered me because suddenly he was there. He just sat down and started talking to me as if he knew me. And he bought another round for the table. Mighta been three rounds. I don’t right remember. Anyway, he told me he was looking for a go-between, someone to hook him up with the farmers in the valley. He needed someone established. Respected. Me.” He proudly poked his thumb into his own chest.

“He flattered you,” evaluated Gwynn.

“Yes, well I agreed to work for him. Even if I didn’t feel right about it the next day. A man can’t just go back on his word, can he? So I lined up a couple of deals for his conglomerate. There was no coin in the deal, at least for me, but he gave me some right nice tools for my trouble. That new plow of ours has a tip made of some kind of iron alloy. A really durable material.”

“You’re losing focus, father.”

“Right, right. Anyway, I figured that was the end of it. But he found me again. He told me I should spend less time growing grain and instead work for him making deals. I could take a regular position in his conglomerate. I would be one of his business managers, he said. There was some real money in his offer.”

“Still, something about this fellow felt a bit off. I thought I would do some looking around before I said ‘yes’. Funny thing was, I couldn’t find any of his business managers in Samara. Just rumors. From those who labor for him, mostly complaints. Dabir doesn’t always deal honestly. “

“But his managers? Not a one. Only a common opinion that they who rise through the ranks leave the city. To date, none have returned.”

“Then, in an alleyway used by none with honest intentions, I ran into an old acquaintance of mine.”

“How familiar are you with these alleyways, father?”

“A conversation for another time, dear.” A look of embarrassment passed through his expression.

“My acquaintance, well she was almost too afraid to speak of what I asked.”

“She?” Gwynn’s eyebrows rose.

Arak ignored his daughter. “I had to part with some coin, but I got the information I sought. At least some of it. That was the first time I heard the name of his ugliness ‘Mctottle-omothis, or however you pronounce it.”

“Of course, I couldn’t leave well enough alone, so I kept pokin’ around Samara. Them fellas with brass masks heard of me. They got me on the way home one evening.”

“I never wanted to visit Grothma, but there I ended up. I talked to this Kroatch fella. Had little horns on his head.” Arak placed the length of his index fingers on either side of his forehead. "He caught me looking at them, so he wrapped his head in a turban."

“We met him,” said Conan and nodded toward Gwynn. She gave him a hit. Dropped him.”

“Good for you, dear.” Gwynn accepted his praise with a smile.

“Anyway, some time back, this Kroatch lost one of his own to Mologomothis worship. Switched religions, he did. Normally, Kroatch would pay no mind over losing one member, but this guy had rank. He started recruiting members from the worship of Xocchottle and Kroatch felt he had to do something. He’s been looking for this apostate for some time now. The apostate hid himself pretty well, though. Kroatch had about given up, until he heard of me asking about Mologomothis. He figured I’d have some information on his apostate.

“Dabir is the apostate.” Conan and Gwynn spoke simultaneously.

“Yeah, I realized that too. I didn’t tell Kroatch, though. Once he had what I knew, I woulda found myself stretched backward over one of his alters. First chance I got, I picked the lock to my cell and slipped town.”

“I didn’t know you could pick a lock, father.”

“If the lock is simple enough.” Arak shrugged. “I haven’t always been a farmer, dear.”

“I guess it was my greed that did me in. There was money at stake. Kroatch had let drop information of Modo-Imalic. So I thought I would take a peek at Dabir’s operation. By this time, Dabir had sent men after me. I had to hide. That’s not easy in the desert, you know. They got close more than once. I recognized some of Dabir’s thugs. I’m pretty sure he didn’t want me giving his whereabouts to Kroatch and a blade across my throat would shut me up pretty good.”

“We ran into some of them. They tried an ambush just outside of Samara and got sloppy. They didn’t live to learn from their mistake,” said Conan grinning grim. His eyes quickly became serious. “This other group seems to better know their business. They still search for us.”

Arak nodded. “We will look for them as we travel.” He allowed himself a long breath and continued his story.

“I found Modo-Imalic. A confusing place, that. I thought I was being careful, but they caught me anyway. Maybe those buildings really can see.”

“They dragged me underground and tossed me in that cell. I really don’t know how long I was there. Eventually you found me.”

“You’re lucky they didn’t feed you to that stinking dark god,” appraised Conan.

“They tried. Tied me to that stake and called their god to eat my soul or whatever it does when it penetrates your tummy. It was most frightening thing that ever happened to me. I was prodded and pushed around by that tentacle, but it didn’t seem to want me.”

“I was rejected, but it touched me.” As he spoke, Arak’s awareness of his surroundings seemed to fade. His focus rested on all things far away, but no relaxed expression settled upon his face. His eyes snapped frenzied from place to distant place.

“For some brief moment, I peered into someplace else – some other reality. This Mologomothis wasn’t the only resident, there. I saw others even more powerful and terrible. They drifted through a void and dwelt on dark, hidden planets. It is a place that is vast and dying and they are searching for a way out. They are looking for us.”

He stopped talking and worked his way through several long breaths. Slowly, the fear left him and the madness drained from his eyes. “I’m sorry, my dear. Sorry for getting you involved with this. I didn’t know.”

“Anyway, after a bit, that big ol’ tentacle just withdrew. Their head priest got all afraid over that. Must have thought Mologomothis was mad, or something. An awful fellow, that priest.”

“Apparently, the big squid doesn’t like just any soul. Those sacrifices need to have the right flavor. Like a good brine on roast fowl.” Arak smacked his lips. “I guess Mologomothis wants to be reminded of the taste of home.”

“Here’s where it gets interesting. Apparently, when someone deals in commerce without using their conscience and completely leaves their ethics behind, it flavors their soul. Do it long enough and they turn into the perfect meal for your hometown dark god.”

“Enter the Ulanic Conglomerate. Dabir is about as ruthless and savvy as they come. His management team? Well, he trains them up just right. Works them for a while, then sends them on a little field trip to Modo-Imalic. Dabir gets rich and feeds his god some choice cuts. And becomes even more powerful.” Arak fell silent.

“Those fancy new tools, father? We can find other ways to get them.”

“Yeah, got that pretty well figured, now.” Arak threw another handful of twigs on the fire.

Gwynn shifted her seat – a little closer to Conan.

* * * * *

The sun rose yellow, pushing thin shadows over the lazy hills of the desert. Gwynn squinted against the new light, grimaced and ducked her head to avoid the glare. From her seat, she stretched her legs forward, balancing for a moment on the old log that lay alongside of a dry stream bed. She cleared her throat with a shallow cough, not to clear away any obstruction, rather for the sole purpose of interrupting the awkward silence.

Conan sat, legs crossed, on a smooth rock nearby. Using one finger, he sifted through the pebble sized rubies sitting in his palm.

“Kind of small,” he said critically.

“No kidding,” snapped Gwynn.

Conan’s mouth worked through a grimace. He threw the tiny stones into a small burlap bag, drew the string closed and jammed it into his belt.

“Look, woman. I can compare to your mule, but I can’t compete with your god- cursed horse.” He jabbed his finger at their steeds, waiting patiently in the yet cool morning.

“I wasn’t asking for the horse,” retorted Gwynn.

Anger flashed across Conan’s face. He stood. “I’m done with this,” he declared.

“Fine.” Gwynn looked at Korman who sat on the ground with a finger shoved firmly into each ear. He rocked rhythmically side to side.

“La-la-la-la-la….”

“Is someone going to make him shut up?” asked Gwynn in a cross tone.

Conan glared at Korman and sharply raked his knuckles across his throat. Korman froze, his mouth silently open. He carefully removed one finger from his ear, ready to jam it back into place.

Arak appeared from behind a shallow hill and approached. “Are you two done with your little talk?” His face held an expression of disappointment.

“We’re done, father.” Gwynn stalked off toward the horses.

* * * * *

Conan had wandered the frozen steppes of Hyperboria, rode the stormy Vilayet Sea and run through the deep green jungles of Khitia. Yet, no matter the strange and different landscapes, one thing remained the same: opportunities awaited a sharp eye and quick wit. All a person needed was the right tool for the right job. Usually a sword.

Even this dusty trail outside of Samara held opportunities. Damned if he could see them, though.

His eyes flicked to the surrounding hillsides. Was that movement? No. Conan returned his attention to the small plumes of dust rhythmically lifted from the ground by the plodding horse in front of him.

As much as he traveled alone, he banded with others when prudent. He had worked for kings and for merchant caravans. Sometimes he waited in ambush with the bandits. He made no apologies for choosing the winning side.

On impulse, he looked at his fellow travelers. He was done with this sorry group. Still, he had to admit a certain fondness for this little troupe.

There rode Korman, his slack jaw dragged on his absently open mouth while his entire attention rested upon the pages of his open book. Somehow, he remained balanced in his saddle.

Even so, he had proven useful that once during the dark god’s assault. In a moment of self discovery, Conan realized that he no longer intended to knock Korman off his horse and leave his worthless corpse as a meal for the desert vultures. No, not even if opportunity allowed.

“Finally!” Gwynn looked to the horizon while standing in her stirrups. Samara remained hidden, but its surrounding valley had spent the morning slowly unfolding from the rolling landscape. Following her gaze, Conan noted a distant smudge across the valley sky - smoke from the countless cooking fires of civilization.

Conan considered. Gwynn knew her trade and she was good in a fight. But her desires in men… Conan shrugged.

A bit of sand trickled down from the top of a dune causing Conan to, again, search the roadside. Again, nothing.

Gwynn tilted her head toward one shoulder and spoke to the emaciated figure seated behind her. “We’ll have shade soon, father. We can water the horses.”

Arak was worth something, thought Conan. He watched the wiry old man nod glibly to his daughter. He used to be worth something, Conan concluded.

“Then you can bathe, father.”

“I’m afraid that will have to wait.” From behind a natural rise in the earth, a grizzled veteran of a man rode his horse, slow and confident. The metal plates of his armored shirt clinked with every placed hoof of his mount. He raised one hand and, keeping two fingers together, jabbed directions into the air. Mounted mercenaries poured from either side of the trail

Conan cursed and pulled free his sword. “Gwynn, with me. Arak, take our flank. Korman…” Conan paused. “Open a door.” Conan focused on the mob of armed men in front of him. Too many fists gripped forged weapons. He and his companions would certainly die. On this day, Crom would face one pissed off barbarian.

From behind, Conan heard Korman mumbling through his arcane verse. The characteristic strange hiss followed as his finger dragged blue light through the air.

* * * * *

Ha-met knew soldiering. Through the years, he had served more masters than he could remember and he had survived all by employing a few simple principles.

It was always best to have more men than the other side. When possible, hit the enemy from behind. If the field was known, get there first and get ready.

Most importantly, in any conflict, Ha-met kept open a back door. If his employer was about to lose the war, he would gather his men and leave the field. Bravery was a lauded asset for any soldier, but sometimes a brave soldier was a dead soldier.

Ha-met’s eyes passed over his objectives. The barbarian wouldn’t go down easy, but Ha-met had enough men to swarm him. His men were cutthroats of the meanest type, pulled from the gutters of Samara. Some of them would die today. Ah well, they were paid for this kind of work.

Ha-met motioned to his second in command. His second wasn’t particularly bright, but he was loud and he was a bully. Perfect for ordering men into a fight.

“Get ‘em ready for a charge.”

Ha-met’s second nodded once. “Form a line,” he bellowed. “Move, move. You, get there. You, face that direction…”

Again, Ha-met surveyed the field. He would wait until the barbarian was full in the fight. Then he would kill him from behind. Easy.

Suddenly, Ha-met sucked in a sharp breath. The barbarian had a wizard! This was not some charlatan claiming power through funny smelling herbs. An arcane symbol had already been drawn and maintained in the still air. Mesmerism!

He had heard that this type of wizard would make you eat your own shit before he killed you. Ha-met made a calculated decision. It was time to open the back door.

He summoned his second. “Round ‘em up. We ride north.”

“Huh?”

“We’re leaving,” reiterated Ha-met. “If anyone wants to return to Samara and try to explain to our employer why they ain’t dead, you’re welcome to it. The rest of you, follow me.”

All knew Dabir’s reputation. To a man, they followed Ha-met out of the shallow ravine that held the trail and headed north.

* * * * *

Arak manned the flank crouched in a fighting stance, knife in hand. For the moment, he faced the empty desert, but he would see enemies soon enough. The first of these hired goons who approached him – well, he would cut them good.

Arak’s butt sagged a bit toward the ground. He straightened and re-set his posture. It had been some time since he had held a fighting stance.

The mercenaries were getting ready to charge. Conan was growling and the portly kid was drawing pictures in the air.

Then the mercenaries turned and left.

Arak stood, flipped his knife and tucked it into his belt. He grinned at his daughter and happily clicked his tongue. Gwynn relaxed her shoulders, allowing her axe to swing down by her side. Conan’s face expressed a mild astonishment.

Arak watched Korman’s sigil drop into a dissipating glitter. Meanwhile, in the background, the last mercenary horse disappeared behind a nearby hill.

“Betcha it was me they were afraid of,” he boasted in a tone of false bravado. He inhaled deeply and spoke in sober self-assessment. “It’s been a while since I’ve been much of a threat.” He put his hand on the shoulder of a grinning Korman. “They left when you drew your little design, there. You have my thanks, son. You’ve saved our keisters twice, now.”

* * * * *

The docks of Samara ran busy with life and industry. Sun warped planks held bodies and boxes and ropes pulled taught. Sloshing ships swapped oil for ore and loaded boats headed out to sea. And while barrels bumped down the quay pushed by the hands of the working class, a space of calm prevailed. A semi-circle of crates served as seats for the small college of Samara.

“No, no. You have it all wrong. The verbal component of a spell works with the angular mechanic created by your fingers. You can feel the derivation when it happens. Now let’s try again. With feeling.” A mumbled concert of wizardry rose from a mass of wiggling fingers and droned through the dock.

Korman stood in front of the class surrounded by an arrangement of open books. The instructor sat to one side with a sullen expression, watching Korman gesticulate his lesson to the student body.

“I don’t think he could be happier,” commented Gwynn.

“He should stay there,” responded Conan.

“Say, that looks like the black cat we saw in Grothma. You know, the one that Kroatch wanted his guard to spear. Do you think it’s the same one?”

Conan watched Korman run his knuckles over the attentive feline. He shrugged and turned to leave – and stopped. “Is that Dabir?”

Gwynn spun. “Where?” she demanded.

* * * * *

Dabir enjoyed watching activity on the docks. Countless workers ground through the day, slick with sweat and grime. Their toil was organized into one mighty concerted effort for the sole benefit of his personal fortune. Their lives and many of their souls were his for a paltry sum and the illusion of personal progress. He fondled the pommel of his short curved sword, tilted forward his brimmed hat to further hide his face and cast a brief look at the pair of guards trailing behind him.

This operation on the docks was not, of course, his entire empire. As well, he had his religion. His dark god. His true power. Necessarily kept separate from his commercial activities. Dabir mused at the potential difficulty of holding together a workforce that was subjected to human sacrifice. Watching your neighbor with their arms pulled up along a sacrificial pole, screaming for mercy as Mologomothis devoured their soul –. Well, it just wouldn’t work out.

Those fools who worshipped Xocchottle didn’t understand this. He had no regrets leaving the cult and their brass masks.

Still, he felt lucky that Samara had been built so close to Modo-Imalic. The lax government had allowed him to create his conglomerate by doing what governments do best: keeping out of his way.

His enterprise and his religion fed upon one another. But they would have to be kept separate, at least for now.

Ahead, something floated through Dabir’s peripheral vision. Someone had broken the regular rhythm of work by leaving the docks mid-shift. Ah well, fewer coins for them.

Dabir had just decided to ignore the incident when he looked again. Suddenly, he recognized the shaggy mane of the barbarian who had climbed through his window a couple of weeks past. Dabir had hired someone to kill him. Someone who, obviously, had failed at their assigned task. His name was Helmet, thought Dabir. Or some ridiculously similar name. Well, Helmet would have to be taught the price for failing to follow direction. This would involve some torture and related screaming. Dabir smiled.

In a moment of alarm, Dabir realized that the barbarian was moving toward him. Dark eyes of ire bore into Dabir.

Dabir signaled his guards to deal with the problem and slipped into a nearby alleyway that separated two buildings. He owned both buildings, he noted smugly.

Peering around the corner, he watched his guards pull swords and approach the barbarian. With stunning speed, the barbarian grabbed the wrist of one guard. He removed the sword from the guards hand and, with one quick twist, broke the guard’s arm. Then, in one simple move of alacrity and power, the barbarian balled his fist and hit the second guard in the head. Dabir watched eyes lose focus and the second guard dropped.

Dabir made a mental note. He would have to hire two new guards. It was time to leave. He turned to the other end of the alley and stopped.

Before him stood a woman, a friend of the barbarian’s. A wicked looking axe dangled from her hand. No matter. Dabir smiled and lifted his curved sword from his belt.

“Still looking for your father?” he asked with a casual grin. “Try the desert, a bit west of here. I  
hear he was entertaining a friend of mine. A big fellow with tentacles. Daddy is probably dead.” Dabir chuckled through his last statement.

The woman stepped forward and flipped up the axe to her front. Her gaze was furious and focused.

Dabir hesitated, then sneered. “Who taught you to use that axe, little girl?”

“Conan.”

It was time to end the conversation, Dabir decided. He leapt forward, swinging his sword in an overhand stroke.

Gwynn lifted her axe. Dabir’s blow ricocheted from the top of her blade with a loud plink. Using both hands, Gwynn brought down her axe. The wide blade thumped through Dabir’s skull, splitting his head in two. His body made a soft, satisfying thud when it hit the ground.

* * * * *

Conan counted. He had a bag of rubies and he rode a horse. It was more than he had had when he first walked through the gates of Samara.

His horse snorted as its hooves slowly churned through the dusty trail. This was a slow farmer's horse, but it was better than walking.

He tossed and caught the bag of rubies. Not so small, he thought. For some reason, he felt defensive about that. Besides, he had a big horse.

He had robbed Dabir's guards of everything they had. A couple of copper coins apiece seemed poor pay, especially for having to deal with a large northern barbarian like himself.

Conan look back at Samara one last time and realized this was the spot he had first laid eyes on this complicated city. And there was the tree where the snare had been set. This was not a memory Conan cherished. He determined that never again would he dangle from such a trap.

A handful of farmers approached him, making their way through their respective fields. They were peaceful this time - no pitchforks held as weapons. No snares.

Conan's eyes narrowed. Hmmm...

* * * * *

Some distance away, Gwynn and Arak watched Conan's departure. Arak leaned on his shovel, his hands folded comfortably over its rounded top. Gwynn decided to rest and plopped a large bag of seed grain on the ground.

"Regrets?" asked Arak.

Gwynn shrugged. "I'll decide when I'm older."

"Shoo," said Gwynn to a chicken which pecked at the bag of grain. Conan had reached the last curve on the road that would usher him out of sight.

"Looks like a few of our neighbors have come out to see him off," observed Arak.

"Oh, this won't end well."

"Nonsense."

The pair stood together watching the scene unfold. Finally, Arak broke the silence. "See there? He stopped chasing them."

"Our neighbors can run pretty fast when inclined." Gwynn sighed. "Well, there's work to be done." She lifted the seed bag from the ground, tossed it on her shoulder and strode toward a nearby shed.

Arak leaned on his shovel some while longer.

end.


End file.
